


all the things it could do to me

by sneakiest



Series: so hot you're hurting my feelings [3]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No COVID-19, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Break Up, Closeted Character, Conflict, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Drunk Texting, Fingering, Hangover, Happy Ending, Homesickness, Johnny bottoming, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Realizations, Reconciliation, Religion, Uncomfortable Conversations, a truly astonishing lack of communication, anxious character, fear of being outed, half-assed roleplay because Johnny's really into having a boy in his room, lots of feelings about familial expectation, mentions of bad sex or intimacy choices, safe sex, sex in childhood bedroom with parents downstairs, tattoo parlor (offscreen tattooing), use of a fake ID to drink at noraebang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneakiest/pseuds/sneakiest
Summary: Over the course of a sweltering Chicago summer, Mark gets dicked down on the regular, meets the parents, is invited to a wedding but not as a date, and misreads a lot of signals.--Or: Maybe people who are sleeping together should actually talk about what that means.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Series: so hot you're hurting my feelings [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724089
Comments: 336
Kudos: 897





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Tay and Mon, my lovely betas, and my usual pile of Discord friends for putting up with me while I agonized over this fic at length. 
> 
> The title is from Dua Lipa's "Break My Heart."
> 
> I did want to note a few things before we get into this one! First, I took many, many liberties with Johnny and Mark's personal lives in this AU, mostly because I want to firmly entrench it in said AU and leave their actual lives and families way the heck out of it. Johnny's mom and dad, when they appear in later chapters, are not His Real Parents, and for that matter, neither are Mark's. There are some details influenced by what we know of their families, obviously, but I want to be clear that I'm trying to respect their privacy as much as possible. They're not public figures, even if their kids are.
> 
> Second, I wanted to explore the nuance of a very closeted kid exploring his sexuality/identity in the (relative, lmao) safe space of college, very far from home. Doing that means this fic is a lot, uh, heavier than the previous two. Mark's family dynamics are, again, totally made up for the fic. If I delve into a fourth fic in this 'verse (and that's looking… likely, given how much I enjoy it!), I hope to tackle more of the complexity that surrounds the idea of coming out in a situation where you're unsure of your reception. The fic deals with a lot along those lines (and in its back half could be triggering for some folks, so please keep an eye out for that if need be) but by no means ties it up with a bow at the end. Just fair warning. (Listen, the previous two installments are summery hookup pornfests, and this one went and got a truckload of feelings involved. Just know what y'all are getting into, is all I'm saying! But no unhappy endings here, promise.)
> 
> Third, I started this series as total id-fulfillment escapism while hunkering down in quarantine, where the idea of going to a house party or a restaurant was a pipe dream (and it still is, for me in Seattle). I considered the message of not mentioning in-universe the very real and important Black Lives Matter protests going on across the world right now, but ultimately, it would feel slimy and inappropriate, to me, to write these heavily fictionalized kpop boys engaging in real and dangerous activism. This fic is very, very far away from 2020 in reality. (I mean, Mark wears jeans in the middle of a Chicago summer! Everything's open and everyone's having a great time not social distancing! It's unrealistic as hell!)
> 
> Okay, I think that's enough tl;dr. Onto the fic! 💖

Donghyuck is lying on Mark's bed playing _Animal Crossing_ and singing a godawful K.K. Slider song as Mark rifles through his closet. He keeps vetoing all of Mark's T-shirt choices with dismissive noises and dipping right back into that twee, grating approximation of language. Look, Hyuck always sounds good when he's singing, his throat is gold-coated and Mark once experienced whole-body frisson during his karaoke cover of "My Heart Will Go On," but this is a bridge too far; there's a dull throb building in his temples from annoyance. Mark's counting down the minutes until he can politely kick Hyuck out and send him on his way to his summer-session class across campus.

He's also counting down the minutes until Johnny arrives to pick up Mark for some good old-fashioned Netflix and chill. And given that Johnny usually rolls up to anywhere, including sticky diners, looking like a viral OOTD Insta post, Mark does not want to be seen with him wearing his old Adidas. Again.

"Dude, this one has to be good, right?" Mark tugs the collar of the Hawaiian shirt Hyuck has borrowed on more than one occasion. He turns sideways and squints at his body in the mirror; the shirt is too big, slipping at the neck to show some skin, but Mark can rock that.

Hyuck sets down his Switch and stops burbling nonsense. In fact, he hauls himself upright, like he might have remembered what time is and Mark won't have to shoo him out in five minutes like a needy stray cat, and gives Mark a once-over.

"Don't you have nicer jeans?"

"These are my nicest ones," Mark says, slipping his hands into the back pockets. "What's wrong with them?"

"You have an old man's ass in them," Hyuck says solemnly. "You want to borrow mine?" 

"Ah, fuck yeah, dude, I love wearing your _warm jeans_. Can't get enough of showing off my ankles, either."

"Rude." Hyuck flops back down onto the bed and picks the Switch back up. "See if I help you ever again. Keep having a saggy ass."

Mark opens his mouth to tell Hyuck where he can put his help and his painfully tight skinny jeans, but there's a knock at his door.

Panic seizes him because he knows it's Johnny. Johnny, who isn't due for another twenty or thirty minutes and who has heard about Donghyuck but never experienced him because introducing volatile elements should be done with the utmost care. (Mark aced the lab-safety portion of his chem class even if the rest was a toss-up.)

It's just that Hyuck imprinted on him two years ago, when they were wide-eyed babies paired up during the laborious and condescending orientation program for transfer and exchange students. Hyuck was the first person that Mark real-life blurted out that he was gay to, and Hyuck got drunk and cried on Mark's shoulder in a dorm bathroom a week into knowing each other because he was so homesick and struggling so hard with English. Mark would have to surgically remove him at this point, and _would never_ , but... Hyuck isn't great with new people. Well, that's a lie; Hyuck is funny as hell and full of energy and likes attention, so he's fine with strangers—unless they've met Mark first. He gets sulky and clingy if he thinks people aren't respecting his place in the bro hierarchy—he iced out Lucas, the most easy-going dude on the planet, for a whole month for some imagined slight—and, okay, a little mean if people push back. 

"Is that _Johnny_?" Hyuck gasps, lurching upright, and he's halfway across the room before Mark can even blink.

He wastes precious seconds frozen in indecision, unsure what to do, how to handle this, pulse pounding in his ears and forehead. He was going to introduce them in controlled conditions, with people for a buffer. This is an accident, and potentially a car crash. Mark's palms are sweaty, and Hyuck's Switch is playing _Animal Crossing_ ambiance in the background as if to taunt him with persistent cheer.

"Hyuckie, please," Mark says, half a moan and half a hiss, turning imploring eyes on his best friend. "Please, be nice. Be cool."

Hyuck laughed for like five minutes when Mark let it slip he hooked up with his former TA, and he made fun of Mark for being attracted to a dude with ambient LED lights, but that admittedly sketch impression of Johnny is not the reality that's going to stare down at Hyuck from a significant height when that door opens. Johnny is hot, and tall, and older, and this could get bad fast if Hyuck feels insecure. 

"I'm always nice," Hyuck whispers back, then smirks. "Relax." 

Mark gets a shivery flash of hot and cold anxiety when Hyuck puts his hand on the door handle, then tries to look like a person not in the middle of a meltdown. It's fine. It'll be fine. Johnny is a social architect, and Donghyuck isn't really that mean, not to Mark, and Johnny is no real threat to him. Hyuck knows that Mark making a new friend (with benefits) is not going to oust him. 

God, he really hopes Hyuck knows.

Donghyuck swings the door open to reveal that yep, Johnny is decked out head to toe, his peach polo tucked into white pants and sunglasses tucked into the neckline, white sneakers pristine. His ankles are in fact out. 

Johnny looks surprised to see someone who isn't Mark but turns on a smile quick. "Hi?" 

Hyuck is leaning against the doorframe like a femme fatale, hip cocked, arms crossed. "Hello, _Johnny_."

Johnny's grin turns delighted right as Mark's jaw drops, and he sticks out a hand. "You're Donghyuck, right? I'm early, I know." He gives an apologetic grimace and peers past Hyuck in the doorway to meet Mark's eyes, for only a second, before he's back to pretending Hyuck isn't being weird.

"Mmhm," Hyuck hums, giving Johnny's hand an exaggerated shake. "Why don't you come inside, Johnny?" He's syrupy, smiling, and Johnny steps inside, like a gazelle into a trap.

\---

"That… was weird." Mark buckles himself into Johnny's passenger seat and copes with the remnants of adrenalin in his system. His hands feel a little shaky. "Sorry."

Johnny flicks the air conditioning vent to point at Mark and turns on the engine, blasting Mark with mercifully cool air. "It was fine. He's cute. I think I made some progress there at the end, huh?" he asks, unbothered despite the fact that Mark had to bodily kick Hyuck out of the apartment to stop him from (more or less cheerfully) arguing with Johnny about, of all things, Burberry.

Johnny turns to look through the rear windshield, to make sure he doesn't run anyone over as he's pulling out of the guest space, and Mark admires the tendon in his throat, the cut of his jaw. 

"Yeah, like, I'd say he's not normally like that, but he kind of is. Sorry." 

Hyuck, with a smile on his face and eyes wide so he'd look the most like an innocent little cherub, dragged Johnny through an interrogation about his job, his hobbies, his hair products, and eventually, where he got his Vivienne Westwood polo. It went on so long that Donghyuck is late for class and probably, at this very moment, running across campus and chafing his dick in those skinny jeans, Mark thinks fondly. 

Hyuck didn't ever get mean or cold, though, and Mark counts himself lucky that it ended as well as it did, their clash over Burberry aside. 

"You did tell me he's intense," Johnny says. 

He's driving them to the store to get snacks on snacks for their Netflix sesh later, full attention on the road, sunglasses in place, hands at nine and five. Mark is struck by how strange it feels to be driven around; even if Johnny's car technically qualifies as a beater, it's a symbol of adulthood or maturity or something that no one else he really associates with on campus has. A few of the rich kids he knows, maybe, but they don't exactly bring Mark along when they run errands. He only gets rides like this when he's back at home in Vancouver being shepherded around by his mom. When he takes an Uber, he sits in the backseat and tries not to worry about getting murdered. This is a whole different vibe.

"I feel like warnings can only do so much, you know? Hyuck is a singular experience."

Johnny laughs. "To be fair, I didn't exactly warn you about Ten. We're probably even."

"You didn't have to. He's, like, famous. I knew about Ten my first week on campus."

"Please never say that to him," Johnny intones. "Please, _never_."

Ten is a lot less scary when you've seen him wearing a sheet mask and yelling at K-dramas. Still, the Mark who heard third-hand how Ten got a _tenured_ professor removed for being all kinds of phobic, the Ten who was arrested during a student protest a few years ago and made it on the news, _that_ Mark is always going to feel like a dorky kid playing pretend around him. 

Mark's never been arrested. Mark can barely raise his hand in class. He goes to marches, hands out fliers, and attends LGBT student life events and sometimes keeps minutes for them, but it costs every ounce of his bravery and self-possession to do so. He can't imagine being Ten, graceful, unstoppable, sharp as a tack and with a mouth to match. 

"I think he's aware, dude."

They drive in pleasant silence for a while, Mark relaxing as the trees and buildings blur by through the window. He's mellowing and starting to feel a thrum of excitement; all of his homework for the week is done and submitted (even though it's only Friday and he's usually a Sunday-at-11:59p.m. person), and this afternoon and evening are going to be filled with good sex and _Avatar: The Last Airbender_. He's busking on the weekend, in part because expanding his social circle to include Johnny, Ten, and now Jaehyun means he's eating out more, and they're all financially at a level he's not. Mark's doing fine; he's luckier than many in that he has scholarships and his parents aren't broke sending him to a good school in America, but he's not exactly drowning in spending money. 

Johnny isn't flush, either, not if the car he drives is any indication, but he can afford to live off-campus and eat out basically every other day, and he's buying fucking Vivienne Westwood polos (though Johnny did tell Hyuck he got his from ThreadUp and that may have been what won him over in the end). Johnny keeps offering to pay for him when they get coffee or go to dinner, but Mark refuses to do anything but go Dutch.

They pull up to the grocery store, and right as Johnny is about to switch the car off, his cell rings. He checks it, frowns, turns off his stereo, and mutters a "one sec, sorry" to Mark, who decides to check his own texts, tuning him out. 

When Johnny hangs up, definitely having used what Mark would describe as a Customer Service Voice, complete with a "buh-bye," Mark asks him what's up.

Johnny sighs and traces the logo on the steering wheel. "So someone with an upcoming wedding had a photographer lined up, but they canceled last-minute, and she's desperate."

"That sucks." Everything Johnny's told him about weddings has made Mark slightly terrified of the whole process. It seems cut-throat and excruciating. Mark misses the days of blissful ignorance when he was happy to be dragged along to the wedding of every person his mother had ever met, even briefly, for the free food and cake. Now, it's kind of tainted. Any wedding he goes to from now on, he'll be wondering if the bride's mom bullied the catering staff or if the groom is still drunk from the night before. "You book the gig?"

"Yeah, and at double my rate. The only thing is she needs that contract ready and signed today."

Mark does some quick mental math. "You need to cancel our hang? No big deal."

"No, no." Johnny turns in the driver's seat to face Mark. His mouth is parted, but his sunglasses are still on, hiding what Mark assumes are lethally cute and apologetic eyes. "Just… postponed. Can you grab some stuff for us and Uber over to my place? Or you could walk, it's not too far, but it's like ninety-five out, so maybe don't do that."

"You… want me to go over to your place by myself?"

"Ten will be home, and I can text him right now to let him know to expect you." 

Mark blinks. "You think he'll be cool with me being in the house?"

Johnny pauses, tongue flickering over his upper lip. "Why wouldn't he be?"

Because Ten never signed up for one-on-one Mark time? Because it's going to be awkward as hell? Mark squirms in his seat and ultimately decides that Johnny's fledgling career as a wedding photographer is way more important than Mark's social awkwardness. "If you're sure, yeah, I'll grab us some stuff and head over. Uh, how long do you think you'll be?"

"Like an hour. She doesn't live far. Mark, seriously, you're a saint." Johnny shifts around until he can get to his wallet, and he procures two twenties that he tries to hand Mark. "Just take it, I'm eating half the food anyway."

He can't argue with that logic. Gingerly, Mark takes one of the twenties and tucks it into his pocket, giving Johnny a look until he gives up on trying to make him take the other. "You want the pretzels again?"

"Fuck yeah, you know it." He leans forward and surprises Mark with a chaste kiss to the cheek, there and gone so fast. "Make yourself at home at my place, okay? Tell Ten if you need anything, and I'll text you when I'm on my way."

"Get that schmoney," Mark says, pushing open the passenger door, and Johnny laughs like Mark made a joke when he was dead serious.

\---

When Mark shows up at the house, soaked with sweat and with a full-blown headache from the oppressive heat, Ten answers the door in a headband, a crop-top, and the baggiest pair of sweatpants Mark has seen in a minute. Seriously, they're slipping down so precariously Mark knows what brand of underwear he buys. Ten's a little sweaty too, maybe doing the living-room yoga Johnny's joked about, and he doesn't even say anything as he flashes a broad smile and takes one of the bags from Mark, gesturing him inside.

"Heyyy," Mark says, cautiously, because now he knows he was interrupting something. He kicks off his shoes and shoves them near the rack. "Thanks for this."

Ten shrugs, the bag in his arms crinkling. "It's nothing. Come show me your spoils."

He trails after Ten like a baby duck into the kitchen. Ten plunks his groceries onto the island and starts unpacking, making noises of approval or consideration at each item. 

"It's communal snacks, by the way," Mark says, putting the other bag on the island and pulling out the pretzels Johnny likes. "Go wild."

"Thank you, angel," Ten says absentmindedly, still digging around for the candy bars at the bottom of the bag. There's a pile of stuff that's meant to go in the fridge, so Mark scoops it up and shuffles over there to put it away. "Johnny said he'll be an hour or so. Do you want to do some yoga with me?"

Mark's stomach drops to his ass. He pictures himself trying and failing to get his leg over his head in his jeans and Hawaiian shirt while Ten undulates next to him in impossible poses and forces back a shudder. The cold air of the fridge feels good as he arranges the fresh fruit and Lunchables on Johnny's designated shelf, nudging aside some of Johnny's beer. He's glad to see it, since Mark didn't get any booze, but there's the beer, and Ten has an actual drink cart with liquor and mixers. 

It truly is weird being here without Johnny. He wishes Jaehyun was the one home instead of Ten. Nothing against Ten, who is being a sweetheart and trying to include him, but Mark is hyperaware of how out of place he feels and at least he has context with Jaehyun outside of this house. 

"No thanks," he says. "I'm wearing jeans anyway."

Ten hums an assent and pops open a bag of chips. He only eats one, snapping it in half neatly with his teeth. "If you want, you can watch TV in the living room while I finish up," he says, munching. "I don't mind."

"I… might just go chill in Johnny's room?" If he has to stay downstairs and fumble through awkward small talk with Ten, especially with this headache, he _will_ say something too inane to live with. "I don't want to be in the way."

Ten rolls his eyes and gives him a little shove. "Oh, you're so in the way of my yoga, Mark. I can't deal. But go on up if you want. I'll see you later for ATLA?" he asks, so nice even if Mark is an interloper, not really his friend, just some kid Johnny is hooking up with. 

"Yeah, for sure."

He takes a bottle of Sprite upstairs with him and makes a pit stop in the upstairs bathroom to clean himself up a bit. The water he splashes on his face and collar and then rubs from his wrists all the way up to his elbows isn't even that cold, but it feels so good he breaks into goosebumps and ends up removing as much sweat from his body as he can. At the end of it, he's got splatters of water dampening his shirt and pants and hair, but this way he won't, like, reek of stale sweat if Johnny wants to fuck around and finger him into oblivion again.

Johnny left his bedroom door open, and in the daytime, it looks so different from the handful of times Mark has been here— _drastically_ different from his first neon-soaked impression. It's tidy, bright with the curtains open, and has an almost eerie emptiness from the lack of Johnny within it. Johnny fills all the corners of his own room, usually with music playing, with his laughter, with the sounds of his moans. But now there's only silence and Mark. 

Mark sits down on the edge of the bed, not wanting to disturb anything at Johnny's desk, and gulps down half the Sprite, fizz tickling his nose. He's still got a headache he's trying his best to ignore, even after his little sink bath, but the cool, clean privacy of Johnny's room is nice. He pulls out his phone and opens Spotify, shoulders dropping with a release of tension when there's familiar, comforting sounds from his favorite playlist, and settles in to wait.

\---

Mark comes to in stages: his hearing filters in first, ears pricking at the muffled sounds of John Mayer, and then his eyes open to an expanse of made bed, a pretty navy comforter, and he's hit with a wave of confusion and comfort as someone runs their fingers through his hair. 

As _Johnny_ runs his fingers through his hair.

Oh shit. He just passed out on Johnny's bed. Mark's heart rate kicks up with anxiety, but his body is still torpid from his nap. Actually, it's _leaden_ ; when Mark tries to sit up, he can only flop onto his back from his side, blinking up at Johnny and wincing when the back of his neck and his temples throb.

"Hey, sleepy." Johnny's still stroking Mark's head. He thumbs Mark's earlobe, and Mark's body wants to curl up and shiver.

Mark realizes he conked out with his glasses still on, for fuck's sake. He hopes he hasn't bent the frame again. "Oh my God, I am so sorry." He fumbles for his phone to pause the music, and this position, staring up at Johnny, makes him feel weird, like a turtle on its back or maybe like he's at the dentist and Johnny is judging his flossing habits. He forces his sluggish body to comply and actually sits up this time. 

Johnny withdraws his hand but doesn't move from his position on the bed seated next to Mark, his thigh pressed tight to Mark's hip. "You're totally fine. You look like you needed the nap."

"Yeah, I guess. It's rude to use somebody's bed without asking." Great, his voice sounds crackly now too. 

If he's got some summer bug, Mark is going to flip. He waited almost a week to chill with Johnny again because of summer classes starting back up, and he even stopped jerking off for the last two days to make sure his orgasm was really fucking spectacular, and now his body is threatening to punk out.

"Says who? I told you to make yourself at home," Johnny says. "You all refreshed for our marathon, huh?"

Whatever the opposite of refreshed is, Mark feels like that. Depleted?

It's possible he's just dehydrated. The only thing he's really had today is Red Bull and soda. He should go downstairs and chug a whole bottle of water to see if that helps. Maybe eat some of the fruit. "What time is it?" he asks, not ready to admit he feels worse by the second. When he checks, he sees it's far more than an hour after he went upstairs—more like two—and embarrassment crawls up his spine. "Please tell me you just got back, dude."

"Hmm, nope." Johnny cocks his head, the thinnest of lines appearing between his eyebrows. "You all right? You look a little…"

Mark considers lying but knows his dumb face isn't capable of it. His brother never has this problem, and they look like twins even if they're separated by a few years. He sighs instead and gives in to the urge to rub at his temples. "Honestly, I think I'm getting sick. I've had a headache since before you picked me up and that nap should have killed it, but now I'm like…" As he tries to string words together, an unpleasant judder wracks him. "Yeah, I'm for sure sick."

The line becomes a deep furrow. Johnny brushes his knuckles over Mark's cheek. "I guess you do feel warm."

Mark feels like shit metaphorically and physically because he's eaten up gas in Johnny's tank and slept, uninvited, in his bed (no one says "make yourself at home" and means "climb up on my bed and sleep for two hours"; it's usually like, "get yourself some water without having to ask"), and he's going to have to cancel their plans _and_ probably beg Johnny for a ride home so he doesn't have to walk to and from bus stops. "I'm sorry, dude, I had no idea this was what was going on. Can we get a raincheck on the Netflix hang?" And he's ruining Ten and Jaehyun's plans too, great. "You guys can watch without me, it's not like I haven't seen it—"

"Mark, it's fine." Johnny looks to the side, and if Mark weren't used to his face by now, he might assume his stern expression was the product of anger or irritation and not just him thinking. "I'll go get you some water and Tylenol."

"I should really peace out before I get you sick." Asking the tic in Johnny's jaw and the unforgiving line of his mouth for a ride is impossible, even if Mark knows he's not really mad. "I'll call an Uber—"

Johnny puts his hand on Mark's sternum and gently urges him down. "Lie down. I'll take you home in a bit."

Mark sinks back down to the mattress because he doesn't have the energy or the temperament to argue. The tension at the back of his neck is intensifying, almost as bad as the ache in his face. "Thanks," Mark says weakly, when Johnny slides off his glasses and sets them on the nightstand. 

"Just rest for a minute. I'll be right back." 

Mark passes a few bleary minutes staring up at the ceiling until the pulsing in his temples urges him onto his side and stomach, jamming his face against Johnny's pillow, hoping that'll relieve it somehow. It doesn't exactly help, but the sensation of pressure in his face feels more like something he's caused more than something he's helplessly enduring. The A/C is on, and every now and then Mark feels chills from a blast of cold air across his arms, and the chills are increasing with intensity until they're not exactly pleasant anymore.

His grand plans for the day—and the _weekend_ , fuck, there went all his busking cash—to get laid and hang with Johnny and his friends are trashed, and he's lying in Johnny's bed while Johnny plays nursemaid for him. Just another snapshot of embarrassment Mark can add to the photobook of his life. 

He doesn't hear Johnny come back, so focused on staying still and controlling the shivers, that the touch of Johnny's hand to his back startles him into a noise. Mark isn't touched a lot as a rule, but it's Johnny, who his body has decided he definitely likes.

"Uncurl a little for me and take these," Johnny murmurs, and Mark lifts his face from the pillow and groans. "There we go."

He hands Mark a cold bottle of water and three white tablets. Mark pops them in his mouth and almost chokes on the gulp of water he takes to wash them down; the cold feels like a shock to his system. He tries to chug the whole thing, knows he needs to hydrate, but he's only able to drink half.

"Work on that while we wait for the pills to hit." Mark nods and goes back to the darkness of the pillow, still clutching the chilly bottle so he doesn't forget to drink more. "Do you have stuff in your dorm? Enough food and water? Meds?"

"Yeah," Mark says, muffled. He feels the mattress dip when Johnny sits next to him. "I have some stuff. Donghyuck can bring me more if I need it."

Mark's back ripples in a shudder when Johnny smoothes his hand down his spine. It's that same moment of deciding whether he likes it, and he does. "I don't want to imagine what kind of food you have in your dorm. Make him bring you actual meals." He strokes his thumb at the base of Mark's neck, then his touch sweeps to Mark's hips. "This okay?" Johnny asks, pausing and lifting his hand.

"'S good." Johnny resumes and dips under Mark's shirt for good measure, his warm palm making soothing circles. It's a counterpoint to the distracting state of his miserable body, to have Johnny's touch. It reminds him of his mom, who would always dutifully rub his back or smear VapoRub on his chest when he got sick, teasing him for being her _squirmy little worm_ when it tickled. 

And now he's officially in the stage of sickness where he wants his mom. Mark sighs and makes himself take another deep pull from the water bottle.

"You look miserable," Johnny observes, slowly and methodically working at a tension spot under Mark's shoulder blade. 

"Yeah, it hit me all at once when I woke up. Sorry for, you know, spoiling the plan." 

"Stop apologizing for having a human body," Johnny instructs. His hand feels like it's spanning Mark's back it's so huge, and if Mark's not careful, he's going to fall asleep again. And, truthfully, would it be the worst thing ever? If he just closed his eyes and drifted away from the pounding in his skull as Johnny gives him goosebumps? It's rude, sure, to keep inflicting Johnny's household with his germy self, but Mark doesn't want this comfort to stop. "Just relax."

Mark lets his eyes flutter closed and sighs heavily into the pillowcase.

\---

Johnny does take him home that night, piling him into the car with a bag of fruit and crackers and water bottles pilfered from Mark's munchie supplies and Johnny's pantry stock. The drive over is a blur, but Mark definitely remembers Johnny kissing his sweaty temple and reminding him to take care of himself, tone low and gentle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the lovely Mon and Tay for helping me wrangle this fic!

Mark was so feverish at the height of his flu that he assumed Johnny texting him tattoo designs and asking his opinion was a hallucination. Now that he's well (minus the occasional garbly cough), he scrolls through their text log from when he was sick and realizes that no, Johnny did actually send him tattoo art and ask what Mark thought of it. Mark's NyQuil'd ass _did_ tell him to get a knuckle tattoo, and Johnny dropped the subject, which is no less than Mark deserved.

 **Mark:** Whoa those designs r fucking sweet  
**Mark:** Now that im not delirious lmao  
**Johnny:** They're nice right? Ten did them  
**Mark:** :o holy fuuuuuck hes so good at everything lmao  
**Mark:** U serious about getting one?  
**Johnny:** Yeah I have an appointment this Friday night, just need to figure out which one and the placement

Which is how Mark is here, in Wicker Park, waiting outside a tattoo parlor and giving himself the same pathetic mental pep talk he had the first time he went with Lucas to a dispensary. No one cares; no one from home will find out; it's legal; and Mark knows as well as anyone that pot and tattoos say absolutely nothing about the people who partake in them. It's not like he's getting the tattoo, even. Johnny is. Still, Mark is quelling his nerves like some minor with a fake ID preparing to waltz into a convenience store to buy liquor and hoping he doesn't get busted.

Not that he has any idea what it's like to use a fake ID. He's extrapolating based on his fear that the people inside the parlor will take one look at him, correctly guess how much of his life Mark has spent wearing chinos, and kick him out for being square. 

Finally, he spots Johnny and Ten crossing the street, Ten chattering at a mile a minute until he notices Mark and waves enthusiastically. Mark lifts his hand and gives a baffled wave back; Ten's way nice to him, all the time, even though Mark has done little to endear himself in front of him since they met at that lunch in June. He's spilled Coke on Ten's lap during one of their _Avatar_ marathons, realized Ten heard him howl through the walls the first time Johnny fingered him, and has generally been a rando dropped into his lap. But Johnny said Ten asked how he was and volunteered to make some Thai soup his mom swore could knock out a cold or flu. Mark's mostly not intimidated by him anymore.

"Heeeey, stranger." Ten sweeps Mark up in a hug so quick Mark isn't prepared, and he doesn't get his limbs to work in time to return the embrace, which he's bad doing anyway. Ten smiles at him when he pulls back, though, evidently not scared off by Mark's stiffness. "You look way less awful."

Mark has no idea what to say, so he just laughs around a "thanks," and Johnny nudges Ten out of the way to talk to Mark. He's wearing sunglasses again, a pair Mark hasn't seen before because, of course, he has multiple pairs. "You weren't waiting long?" 

Like that matters at all. "Nah, my bus was the regular fifteen minutes behind schedule." 

Ten slings an arm around Johnny's waist and kind of rocks him in place, which Johnny allows with a faintly amused smile. "You ready to pop your body-mod cherry, Johnny?" 

"I've had my ears pierced since I was sixteen, but sure." Johnny nods at the window with the view of the wooden-floored space Mark peeked at earlier. "We should go in."

Ten pulls away from Johnny's side and is the first to enter, greeting the staff like he already knows them—and who knows, he might. Mark wants to trail in last, keep a low profile so no one makes the mistake of expecting him to hold a normal conversation on a subject about which he knows nothing, but Johnny holds the door open for him.

Inside is about what he expected from his furtive glances: a (blessedly air-conditioned) mostly open space with gleaming but scuffed wood floors, a metallic ceiling of some sort with exposed pipes running the length of the room. It's a mishmash of industrial vibes and something less intimidating. Overstuffed couches and funky sculpture art is strewn amidst the order of different tattoo stations and their dividers. Mark hears what sounds like a dentist's drill whirring, drowning out the low-fi chill shit they have playing from unseen speakers, and his shoulders hike to his ears with discomfort. He forces himself to slouch.

Johnny confirms his appointment with the receptionist. A few feet away, Ten is draped against a glass display case, peering at jewelry, and Mark joins him so he doesn't look totally lost. Ten is humming to himself, trailing beringed hands over the glass, which doesn't seem sanitary but whatever, and he pulls his lower lip between his teeth when he sees something he really likes. It's cute.

"Look at these," he says, pointing to a row of carved wooden… things. Earrings? Probably. "God, I need to gauge my ears."

Mark isn't so sheltered in the world that he doesn't know what that means, and he manages to conceal his wince. "Neat. Handmade?" he guesses.

"Yeah, they make a ton of their own jewelry. I'm gonna walk out of here too broke to afford rent." Ten sighs, breath fogging the glass, before reluctantly pulling himself away and leaning against the case to regard Mark. "It's really sweet of you to come."

"I've never actually seen anyone get inked. Seemed like a cool thing to experience." He tries to be casual, hands slung in his pockets and leaning against the case too, but Ten's smirk lets him know he sees through Mark's fronting. "But how are excited are you?" he asks in a hurry. "Johnny's getting your art, like, immortalized on his body. That's… wow."

"Johnny's not the type to wander in off the street," Ten says. "He planned out what he wanted, and I helped him with the design and finding an artist to work with."

"After Sehunnie's disastrous lower-back thing, I was not taking any chances," Johnny says, startling Mark with his proximity. "He paid like triple the cost of the tattoo to get it removed before he went back to Korea."

Mark had no idea Sehun had a tattoo. Wild. While Ten imitates Sehun's whining over the tattoo-removal process, Mark sees Johnny's small smile looking strained at the edges, and he wonders if Sehun is a sore spot for Johnny. They were close. Are close. Like Mark and Lucas, he assumes; it stings like a bitch not to see him every day, sop up his boundless energy, but remembering Lucas' antics in no way pains him. Johnny doesn't usually look this way when he mentions him, either.

Mark's metaphorical ears perk. His gaze steady on Johnny, he asks, "You ready?" 

"Yeah, she's just finishing getting set up."

"You want us with you, baby?" Ten asks, thankfully voicing what Mark's been hesitant to. No part of him likes needles or that awful buzzing sound, but while he would likely be fine sitting on one of the couches scrolling through his secret Instagram account, if Johnny wants him there, watching the progress up close, he'll be there. 

"It's whatever. I know you want to shop," he says, raising a brow at Ten, who grins and goes back to coveting the jewelry under the glass.

Johnny has no problems being blunt, and _it's whatever_ throws Mark a bit. That's a non-answer. He narrows his eyes as Johnny's tattoo artist wanders over and introduces herself to the group, and he watches how little Johnny smiles and how perfunctory it looks when he does. It's not like Johnny isn't serious or thoughtful as a human being; heck, Mark saw more of that side of him as a TA than he did the hints of something funny and flirty and way more interesting than coding, so he's well aware Johnny isn't all laughs and designer T-shirts. It's just that he's rarely passive. He lets Ten steer the conversation with the artist, discussing hygiene practices and the thickness of needles, nodding or chiming in when directly asked. 

When it's time to decide the exact placement with some sort of transfer paper thing, Johnny lifts his shirt off with jerky motions and sits stock-still on the artist's table. He flashes a smile when Ten teases him with a whistle, but his face slips back into a neutral expression too quickly. There's a furrow between his eyebrows.

Mark maneuvers himself closer to Johnny, asking for quiet permission from the artist to make sure he's not in the way. He knows he's done the right thing when Ten gives him a tiny approving nod before wandering off to presumably look at more jewelry. 

"You nervous?" Mark asks, once Johnny has studied the blue-ink stencil of his tattoo at length in the mirror and decided he doesn't want to move it. Mark has no idea about art, literally none, but the design is cool, this feathery and abstract thing Mark assumes is a bird. It looks almost delicate, which is not how Mark would personally describe the average tattoo. 

"Nah." Johnny lies down when urged by the artist (she's super tiny, so there's no way she could have done it with him sitting up; her arms would fully fall off), looking beautiful and vulnerable and too big for the blue table under him. The tattoo machine to his right, where the artist is sitting, buzzes a few times as she sets up; testing the gun, Mark assumes. Johnny's throat works with a heavy swallow.

"You can sit if you want," she says cheerily to Mark, gesturing with a gloved hand to the small metal chair behind him. 

He drags the chair forward and sits rather than continuing to awkwardly hover, and it's as uncomfortable as it looks, metal biting into Mark's bony ass. Still, he wouldn't trade it, not even for sitting on the comfy-looking couches in the lobby area. Not with the way Johnny's eyes trace Mark's face but don't land anywhere in particular, not as the artist leans in and murmurs reassurances and checks that Johnny's ready to start, and not when Mark finds himself instinctively reaching out and gently enclosing Johnny's hand in his own. Johnny's nervous, of course, he's nervous even if he's determined, and something in Mark's chest aches with the knowledge.

Johnny laces their fingers together and squeezes, hard, and doesn't let go the whole time.

\---

After the artist gets some shots for her portfolio, Ten ducks in with his phone and gets a bunch of pics too, ordering Johnny into increasingly ridiculous poses. Johnny, now that his ordeal is finished and he's the proud owner of what Mark can admit is a nice piece of art that only draws attention to how hot his bare torso is, is relieved and laughing, and back to his regular vibes.

"Your mom is gonna _hate_ it," Ten sings, finally putting his phone down but giving Johnny one last lingering look with bright, fascinated eyes. He's clearly delighted that Johnny's sporting his own work, even if it's interpreted through someone else's hands—and needles. Johnny said he did like seven revisions of the design. 

"Why do you think I had you design it?" Johnny asks as the artist starts slathering him with Vaseline. "She'll be too busy complimenting your genius to get mad at me."

"Please, Mama Suh doesn't love me enough to forgive me for this." 

Mark pictures telling his mother he got a tattoo and nearly blacks out where he stands. 

"You should tell her in the middle of wedding prep," Ten continues. "She'll be distracted then." 

Johnny is checking himself out in the mirror, even as the artist tapes plastic wrap over the raw tattoo and basically obscures it. "Oh, God," he says, nose wrinkling with horror.

"Wedding prep?" Mark asks.

"My cousin's getting married in August," Johnny says. "It's a whole thing. My family has collectively lost it."

"Please don't let them force you into unpaid labor _again_ ," Ten says. 

"My mother would disown me if I looked my aunt in the eye and quoted her my rates." Johnny gingerly slips his shirt back on, robbing everyone of their view. "They have an official photographer; I'm just the backup. And really, what else am I gonna do at the wedding but hang back and fuck with my camera?"

"Uh, like, cut it up on the dance floor with me, eat cake, get high in the bathrooms, and take advantage of the open bar, duh," Ten lists. 

"Yeah, no thanks," Johnny says with a shudder, and follows the artist up to the counter to finish paying his bill.

Ten and Mark meander to the couch area, and Ten elbows Mark conspiratorially. "Johnny's such a killjoy when it comes to weddings now. He meets a few Bridezillas and suddenly the entire concept is dead to him? Please." Ten snorts. "He probably cries at every single wedding he shoots. Insufferable romantic."

Mark's too busy processing the entirety of Ten's outburst to even fill the silence with laughter. Ten must notice him struggling; he prods Mark again, just under his ribs.

"Mark, sweetheart, please tell me you aren't still laboring under the delusion that Johnny is _cool_. You've seen his bedroom lighting."

This time, Mark does laugh, a little too loud in the open space. "No, it's not— I mean, y'all are just cooler than _me_ , is what it is."

Ten coos at him and literally pinches his cheek. Mark hasn't experienced that in a while. Surprisingly, he hates it from Ten way less than he would anyone else. He's rubbing his smarting cheek when Johnny rejoins them, his sunglasses back on even though the sun has almost entirely set by now. Mark snickers looking at his face, thinking of those purple lights and Johnny sniffling at the beauty of love or whatever from behind his camera.

"You ready to get dinner?"

"Wait, I thought Mark was getting a nipple piercing?" Ten says in a dramatic voice at a very dramatic volume, and he collapses into giggles when Mark squawks at him.

\---

It's just the two of them wandering the blocks of Wicker Park to walk off the metric ton of pizza they scarfed down, Johnny absolutely starving after hours of nerves. Ten bailed on dinner to go clubbing, waggling fingers in a goodbye as he climbed into a taxi, and the relative peace he left in his wake has allowed Mark to wind down some. He likes Ten a lot, even if he remains baffled by how much Ten seems to like him, but trying to keep up with Ten and Johnny when they get going is a lot to ask of anyone.

"Oh, there's gelato," Mark says, pointing at a shop lit up to be cheery and inviting, bright lights spilling out to make the patch of sidewalk they're standing in glow.

"Eugh, please, no more food," Johnny groans. "Maybe there's a bookstore or something."

"Hey, I'm good with whatever. We don't have to stop in anywhere. We can just walk together."

Mark says it off the cuff, not much thought but sincerity behind it; it's Johnny's night, and he can do whatever he wants to celebrate his brand-new tattoo. Mark's happy to stretch his legs or peruse shelves of secondhand books or put dairy in his body if that's what Johnny wants. He's surprised where there's a tug at his wrist stopping him from moving past the gelato shop—Johnny's big hand clasped around his wrist, tugging him.

He lets himself half-stumble back a step and ends up braced against Johnny's chest, mindful of the spot under his shirt where his tattoo is. The implication, the way Johnny lifts Mark's hand and kisses his knuckles, stirs up goosebumps on Mark's arms.

"Do you wanna come home with me tonight, Mark?" Johnny asks, deep and private despite the people milling past them, and Mark shivers from his head to his toes.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

\---

Mark has already endured the private humiliation of prep in Johnny's bathroom, and he's not even actually horny yet, but there's something under his skin thrumming with excitement. He hasn't been touched by Johnny in almost two weeks, since before his gross flu, and he wasn't sure how they were going to slip back into their whole sex-friends thing, but Johnny made it so easy. All he had to do was say yes.

Plus, he has a pretty good idea that what he said yes to was getting his back broke, and Mark has been _waiting_.

He tiptoes back to Johnny's room, even though Jaehyun's room is downstairs and Ten's out until the very early hours, and Johnny is just in boxers standing in front of his closet mirror, squinting at his plastic-covered skin.

"Don't touch it," Mark says in a rush when it looks like Johnny's about to peel back the tape. "Oh my God, you heard what she said. Clean hands only." Mark read the aftercare instructions twice over for his own edification, and Johnny needs to get with the program unless he wants a fucking infection.

"Relax. I'm not touching it."

"Okay, good." Mark stands in the doorway, at a loss for what to do, until an idea strikes him. He fiddles with the second lightswitch that he knows controls the LEDs, then flicks through the colors fast. "Is this good mood lighting, do you think?" he asks, eyebrows high and guileless, and bends in half laughing when Johnny turns to give him a sour look.

"I seem to recall you weren't complaining."

"Dude, I was so into you, you could have had those psychedelic mushroom posters and I would have been like, _Oh, a man with taste_." Mark wipes damp from the corners of his eyes and turns off the LEDs. Johnny's regular lightswitch has a dimmer, so he does avail himself of that, until the bedroom looks cozy-sexy.

Johnny is chuckling even as he kicks back on his bed and shows off his long-ass body, peering at Mark under his floppy bangs. 

Mark is single-minded tonight, after weeks of waiting, and he needs it all on the table, even if it's going to come at the cost of actually talking about it. He climbs up on the bed next to Johnny, tracked by Johnny's amused, predatory gaze, and clears his throat.

"So, uh, I want to bottom tonight," he says, looking down at Johnny's bare knees, the golden length of his calves, the way he's got his legs crossed casually at the ankles. 

"Mhm," Johnny says, low and pleased.

"The thing is, I've only bottomed a few times for actual dicks. Two dicks," Mark clarifies. "You'd be the third."

"A nice, odd number," Johnny says, valiantly not laughing at him.

Mark barrels onward. "So it might… I've just never taken anything as big as you. It might take me a while to, you know. Get used to it." He does not add _You know I have a sensitive asshole_ , because Mark's dignity is already thin, but he thinks Johnny must remember from the last time they fooled around and Mark nearly came from being rimmed.

Johnny tips Mark's chin up with a finger, and it takes a lot for Mark to meet his eyes, but it's worth it when he does: Johnny is smiling, eyes crinkled half-moons. "That's part of the fun, Mark Lee. Don't you wanna have fun?"

He swoops in and gets Mark underneath him, mouth hot, chasing Mark's laugh.

\---

Johnny fucks him like he's trying to prove something, and Mark is essentially left to grab onto his shoulders—or the backs of his own knees, to hold himself open—and try to keep up. First, Johnny opens him up methodically, his boxers still on, while Mark's hips are propped on a pillow. All the way up to three fingers, Mark loses time and turns to taffy as Johnny tells Mark how pretty he is and asks if he likes it when Johnny rubs his prostate fast or slow. He's had weeks to figure out how Mark likes it, and he knows to use his teeth and hands on Mark's nipples until they're sore and he's messy with precome.

He slips his dick inside Mark so carefully, so slowly, as Mark struggles to keep from squirming around the sting. The position means he can't get too deep too fast, which Mark appreciates since he knows Johnny's got another inch or two of spare cock he could shove inside if he really wanted to. _Fuck_ , he's just… inescapable, his cock steadily spearing him, his muscled thighs keeping Mark's legs spread. He won't look away from Mark's face, cataloging every flicker of an expression, every time Mark's eyelashes tremble. His chest gleams with sweat in the dim light, the swath of his pec and shoulder still securely wrapped, as he works a hand over Mark's dick to keep him hard. 

"You okay?" Johnny asks, rocking his hips nice and easy while Mark groans. 

"Perfect." Mark drops one of his legs so he's free to grab Johnny's hair and steer him down for a kiss. The change in angle, the way Johnny has to surge forward and push Mark's legs even higher and wider, means Mark is spiked with an unpleasant sensation. He gasps, but Johnny adjusts in a hurry, keeping up his slow and small but devastating thrusts. 

All of his other experiences bottoming ran the gamut from fine to downright painful, and even if he gets himself off on the regular with two fingers quirked in his hole or uses that sad, too-small anal toy he ordered from Amazon, too chicken to look at an actual sex-toy website, nothing could have prepared him for being done _right_. Johnny's slow, confident, considerate, like he's got all the time in the world.

Even just in missionary, Johnny puts him in contortions Mark's never tried—never even _thought of_ —and when he starts actively trying to nail Mark's prostate, he eats the screams out of Mark's mouth.

Maybe a minute later, Mark's about to come, and he breaks away to raggedly shout "Stop, stop, stop." It took an hour between all the foreplay and the incremental progression of actually getting used to Johnny's cock; he's not ready to shoot yet, not when Johnny's finally fucking him the way he's dreamed about.

Johnny, still snugly most of the way inside, holds still until Mark blows out a long breath and attempts to relax, then reaches for a bottle of water on the nightstand. They share it, passing it back and forth between gulps, and Mark feels so giddy and ridiculous hydrating with Johnny's dick up in him that he ends up giggling, and Johnny nearly goes cross-eyed at whatever that must feel like.

"'M good," Mark sighs eventually, prodding Johnny with his heel in encouragement. "Just not so hard or I'm done in three strokes."

"Fuck, you're incredible." Johnny's hands cup the backs of Mark's thighs and leverage him up to get a nice jab at his prostate. "Mmm, that good?" he asks, a fully rhetorical question as Mark whines.

When he flips Mark onto his hands and knees, apparently wanting to really show off, he has Mark's arms and legs quivering in seconds; each time Johnny hits it, electricity races through Mark's veins, pleasure so exquisite he starts to go numb. "Fuck, I can't take it much longer," Mark warns.

On the next thrust in, Johnny rolls his hips in a circle, hitting his prostate in new and interesting ways, and Mark collapses forward, face in Johnny's pillow, dick squished against the mattress. Johnny goes down with him, draped against Mark's back, though he's careful not to crush him. "Mark?" he asks, sounding worried.

"Don't stop, don't stop, fuck, I can feel you're right on it, oh man," Mark garbles into the pillow, waves of goosebumps coursing over his skin. His cock's so wet it's like he's already come.

After a long moment of hesitation where Mark trembles and whimpers and tries to flex his fingers from the claws his hands have turned into, scrabbling at the sheets, Johnny rocks forward. It's gentle again, nothing like the impact they worked up, but it feels so good Mark can barely breathe. He feels like he's edged himself for hours and like he's got a buzzing vibrator pressing down right on his swollen gland. One of his legs kicks involuntarily, like he's been jolted with electricity and he's got no control over his limbs.

"Mark, shit," Johnny whispers, and kisses the back of his neck. "Oh my God."

The next thrust is less gentle, pushing the air in Mark's lungs out, and the sounds he's left able to make are broken and desperate. Johnny's dick is going to make him come harder than he's ever managed by himself, and knowing that is too much for him; Mark makes a noise like he's wounded, like he might cry. He takes two more brutal thrusts until he feels his orgasm start somewhere deep and expand like a supernova. He sucks in a breath and says Johnny's name in a tremulous, ruined, humiliating voice, and then Mark thinks he's squirting, and it keeps streaming out of him. Johnny doesn't let up, each loud slap of his hips another pulse from Mark's cock, until all at once he's cramping and can't take it anymore. 

Somehow, even though the noises Mark makes aren't anywhere near speech, Johnny figures it out. With as much gentleness as he can manage, he pulls out and rips off the condom to shoot over Mark's ass and thighs. Each hot rope of come that lands on Mark's skin makes him twitch. His ringing ears process the way Johnny sounds coming, more guttural than even the time Mark gave him his third orgasm in a row.

Johnny does pretty much crush him against the mattress now, panting breath stirring Mark's hair, too hot and sticky against his back, but it's so good, Johnny's arms wrapping around him and holding him close, making him small, taking care of him. 

\---

It's the second time he's woken up in Johnny's bed. It's not any less weird this time. 

Last night, Johnny toweled him off and changed the sheets and told him to stop worrying, that he could sleep over if he wanted, but honestly? Mark gave in mostly because his body could not have physically seen him home. He would have passed out on the steps to his dorm like a freshman trying to get home blackout drunk. And that's a valid reason to crash, but Mark in the light of day is having an existential crisis over it.

Mark stares at Johnny, who has his forearm across his eyes in sleep to block out the sunlight that woke Mark, and he doesn't quite know what to feel.

He's never slept with someone after sex, never even _wanted_ to. None of his dates asked him to sleep over, and certainly not his Grindr hookups. But Johnny is in a nebulous friends-with-benefits space, not Grindr and not a club and not painstaking chat on OKCupid or whatever. Johnny also seems like he's had more experience than Mark (not that it's hard to have racked up more experience than Mark). 

He reminds himself that other adult humans who are not Mark Lee enjoy sharing space and casual hugs and maybe even beds. Mark went twenty years dodging being touched by anyone but his family; people in his space, even close friends, made his palms sweat and his hackles go up, even as a little kid. Sometimes they still do, if he's tired and not expecting it. But not everyone has that problem, and for sure Johnny doesn't, not with the way he and Ten hang off each other, easy and friendly. Maybe it isn't as immensely personal to have someone sleep next to him as it is for Mark.

Given all that, he slept surprisingly well. Mark feels mentally alert and refreshed even if his body feels like a deflated balloon. Occasionally sharing a bed with his siblings, the people he's arguably the closest to in the world, the most acclimated to, never left him feeling particularly rested. 

Mark gets out of bed slowly, mindful of his sore back and legs, the ache deep inside him, and the way he can feel his heartbeat in his asshole, woof, and finds his jeans and shirt scattered on the carpet. He can't twiddle his thumbs in Johnny's bed all day, listening to his light snores, so he gets dressed and heads down the stairs. Mark's not leaving, as he's aware that would make him a dick, but he's not staying upstairs to watch Johnny sleep or, worse, waking him up somehow. 

Halfway down the stairs, he smells bacon and syrup, and his stomach growls something fierce. When he rounds the corner into the kitchen, he sees Jaehyun at the stove, flipping pancakes and bacon in a sleeveless shirt (with a frilly apron overtop Mark suspects is barely functional and belongs to Ten), which is against every cooking rule Mark's heard of. Ten, despite having been out late clubbing the night before, is sitting fresh-faced and crossed-legged on the kitchen island, eating yogurt.

"Hi, angel. Do you want breakfast?"

Jaehyun looks over his shoulder, dimpling at Mark and giving him a bro nod in the same breath. 

"Sup," Mark says. "I don't need anything, Ten, but thank you." His traitorous stomach growls, but he hopes the various popping and frying sounds, and the vent fan Jaehyun has on, have covered for him.

"Don't be silly, there's tons." He holds his yogurt out to Mark, like he's going to want it secondhand.

"Uhhh…" 

"I made enough batter for everybody," Jaehyun says cheerfully. "And it's really good bacon."

"I mean," Mark tries, and Ten tilts his head at him, eyes imploring, mouth starting to pout. "Sure?"

It turns out there's eggs, too, a fluffy pile Ten made and liberally spiced and was keeping warm in a pan in the oven. Ten fusses over Mark until he's seated in the dining room with a glass of water and a glass of some orange-guava juice. There's a pile of textbooks at one end of the long dining table, as well as what looks like a half-finished sewing project, but there's plenty of room for the three of them.

"Should we, uh, get Johnny?"

Ten pours a seemingly endless stream of maple syrup onto his two pancakes and rolls his eyes. " _You_ go wake him up and convince him that he eats breakfast food before noon." He pats Mark's hand. "He'll get up when he's up, and he'll probably Postmates some nasty Starbucks wrap."

Mark nods, though he's grappling with the concept of anyone who doesn't like breakfast food at literally any time, and shovels a carefully constructed forkful of egg, pancake, bacon, and syrup into his mouth. The moan he gives is unrestrained and unexpected. Jaehyun laughs at him, and Ten smiles around his own mouthful.

"Jaehyun's locked into an eternal contract with us," he says. "He should never have told Johnny he likes to cook for people. Now he's our little house bro."

Jaehyun smiles wider at that, which just goes to show that Mark's read on him on being the nicest, chillest dude ever was one-hundred percent correct. "I accept my lot in life," he says pleasantly. "Ten, these eggs are out of control."

"Thanks, I stole the recipe from Pinterest. It's one of the, like, three things I can cook." He sounds as proud of his eggs as he does the fact that he can't cook. Mark can't cook, either. He would extend a fistbump in solidarity if he weren't busy inhaling everything on his plate in record time.

Jaehyun and Ten chatter about watering the lawn and when their landscape company is coming by next, then about the summer sessions of beginner and intermediate dance Ten is teaching. "Just to keep me in handbags," Ten says breezily. 

"I like the one in the living room, I mean, in the closet there," Jaehyun says. 

Mark owns a JanSport backpack and a leather briefcase his dad gave him when he started college that he keeps under his bed. Hyuck has a little collection of bags, too, and sometimes Mark holds onto his bag for him when he's in the bathroom and wonders what's in there. 

"Ah, that reminds me, I should put the Burberry away until fall."

Mark remembers Johnny's strong opinion of Burberry and Hyuck's scoffing defense of _the classics_ and hides his smile in a huge gulp of juice. His meal is pretty much demolished, and the conversation is only serving to remind him of how little he has to contribute, but it's nice. When Mark's done, he puts his napkin and his fork on his empty plate and lets Ten and Jaehyun's chatter about the water pressure in the downstairs bathroom distract him from how, yep, his heartbeat is still pulsing in his asshole. 

Then the spotlight of Ten's attention is suddenly on Mark. "Hey, Mark, let me know if you want a shower, okay? I know Johnny's not up yet, but you don't need to wait if you don't want to."

He considers it. Even though Johnny rubbed him down pretty thoroughly last night with a damp towel, he's felt cleaner in his life, and he's worried he smells. He's also already broken the door of his inhibitions wide open by staying the night, so fuck it. "I could stand a shower," he says. "If it's not a bother."

"You're never a bother, angel," Ten says in a tone more serious than the moment seems to warrant. He pushes his plate away, with half a pancake and one slice of bacon still uneaten, and stretches, stubby fingers pointed at the ceiling. "I'll go grab you some clothes. You can use the bathroom upstairs, okay?"

"Okay," Mark agrees, and gets up to wash his plate first before he forgets.

\---

Twenty minutes later, Mark is showered and feeling a lot less in his head about shit, wearing an oversized shirt that keeps trying to creep down his shoulder and a pair of pants that fit but are a touch high at the ankles. Ten even handed him a pair of boxers with the tag on. Mark stood naked in the steamy bathroom for a few minutes debating the merits of rubbing his bare dick all up inside of Ten's pants versus co-opting a nice-looking pair of underwear that he did not pay for versus pulling on day-old underwear that he wore to sleep in after sex. Ultimately, he decided to wear the new boxers, vowing to Venmo Ten at some point.

In the living room, Jaehyun is showing Mark his vinyl collection and enduring Ten's friendly teasing about his taste in "old-man music" when Johnny comes down. His mouth and eyes are tight until he spots Mark sitting next to Jaehyun and stops in his tracks. Mark realizes in a rush that Johnny woke up to find no trace of him, and that maybe he should have texted.

"Hi," he says, and scrambles up to his feet in a jumble of skinny limbs. 

Johnny follows his progression across the hardwood floor, expression softening, and then he glances down at Mark's mostly exposed shoulder and licks his lips. There's something hot in his eyes, and Mark puts two and two together and realizes that Ten did this on purpose. This is definitely Johnny's shirt he's drowning in.

"Oh," he says, trying to hike the shirt up his shoulder to no avail. "I thought… Ten gave it to me."

"Yeah," Johnny says slowly, attention still glued to Mark's shoulder. It should be impossible that Mark feels shy after what they've done, what Johnny did to Mark the night before, but Johnny's naked hunger has him blushing, wanting to stammer. Knowing Jaehyun and Ten can see this all go down is not helping. "He likes to borrow my shirts."

"You're welcome!" Ten chirps from the living room, and Johnny huffs a laugh.

"Do you want to get breakfast?" he asks, finally settling his attention back on Mark's annoyingly flushed face. 

"I had— Ten and Jaehyun made a whole thing, they said—"

"Don't worry about it, I'm not really hungry anyway."

"He has to powerdrink like two cups of coffee before he's human," Ten half-shouts. "It takes _forever_."

Mark raises a brow at that, more to distract from how flustered he still is than because he cares about Johnny's coffee habits. "I mean, I got time," he says.

\---

Mark's scarfing a plate of nachos and trying to covertly wipe a smear of guac from his chin when the whole thing is set in motion.

"I told your mom I can't come to the wedding," Ten says, not looking up from his phone even though he's somehow demolishing the plate of nachos balanced atop his knees with a fork. "I don't want to get a sub for my classes or miss out on studio time, not right before their showcase."

"Cruel and unusual," Johnny grumbles back, once he chews and swallows his mouthful behind his hand. Mark seems to be the only one struggling to keep clean here. "Breaking the bro code."

"Just take Jaehyun," Ten says dismissively, but then his eyes flick up from his phone screen and study Mark before shifting to Johnny. "You only bring me to haul all your equipment anyway."

"No," Johnny says, drawing it out, "I need you to be my emotional support Ten. You know what my family's like."

Ten snorts and goes back to his endless phone scrolling. "You think your aunties are bad, come to Thailand and deal with mine."

"Tennie, I keep offering, but you never seem to want to make an honest man out of me." Johnny cracks open a beer, tossing his head before he grins and savors a mouthful of cheap beer.

This prods Ten into unfurling from his folded-up position in the leather recliner. He puts his plate of nachos on the entertainment stand next to him (perilously close to Jaehyun's vinyl collection). He wriggles around in the chair until he's cross-legged, leaning forward, and staring straight at Johnny, all pretense of being distracted by his phone gone. The dangerous quirk to his mouth has Mark utterly still with a chip in his hand. Johnny's face, settled into seriousness with his mouth turned down at the corners, is equally alarming. 

"You think my parents would accept a part-time bat mitzvah photographer? Please." He flicks imaginary dust from his tank top. "Get on my level."

"Oh, I'm not getting on the ground," Johnny says, stone-faced and even. "I just bought these jeans."

Ten throws his head back and laughs, and Mark isn't _entirely_ unused to the concept of playful sniping, not after two years of Donghyuck, but this is that dialed up to eleven—and Mark can't really dish it back to Hyuck, not for real. He pictures unleashing Hyuck on Ten and the resultant carnage and opens a beer of his own.

"I know you'll miss being able to use me as a distraction, but Jaehyun's _so_ cute, you know they'd love him."

"I guess." Johnny taps his can, thinking. "Isn't that weird, though? He just moved in. I already feel bad he cooks for us so often."

"Then take Mark," Ten says, exasperated, gesturing at Mark like _duh_ , why wouldn't Johnny take Mark to _his cousin's wedding_? No one answers him, but Ten seems totally serious and even warming to the idea. "Like, put him in a suit and turn those big eyes on them…" He mimes an explosion with his hands, rings glinting. "They won't even notice you're there."

"Mark busks on the weekends," Johnny says, face and voice carefully neutral, and Mark sets his beer down so he doesn't spill onto his lap because his hands are suddenly shaky.

"Well, someone's got to lug all your stuff around, and I'm not fucking doing it, so." Ten retrieves his phone and stretches one leg out over the arm of the recliner, apparently finished with the subject.

Mark, always trying to be helpful and not at all comfortable sitting in tension, blurts out in a too-high voice, "I can busk any time, really. It's not always on weekends."

And that's how Mark agrees to tag along to Johnny's cousin's wedding as some sort of combination of personal assistant and protection against aunties. 

("The hardest part is keeping Johnny from trying to samba when he gets some liquor in him," Ten tells him, right before Jaehyun gets home and their _Avatar_ watch recommences. "You'll do fine."

Mark does not feel assured, but the look of relief on Johnny's face when Mark shrugged and stammered his way into agreeing stays with him.)

\---

Johnny texts him to ask if he has any food allergies aside from the dairy thing. For the wedding. Because he'll be eating at the wedding, and they need to avoid potentially serving him something that breaks him out in hives. At the _wedding_.

Mark lets Johnny sit on read for a minute. He's bleary in the dark of his bedroom after a long day of classes and trying to learn a new song. Right now, Mark wishes desperately Lucas were snoring in the empty bed across from him so he could wake him up and beg for reassurance that this isn't going off the rails. Lucas doesn't second-guess. Lucas would be single-mindedly excited over going to a wedding, as a date or no date or something in between, even if it meant he was weighed down with camera equipment and surrounded by strangers. 

He knows what Donghyuck would say ("ASK HIM IF IT'S A FUCKING DATE YOU LOSER," as if Mark actually wants to know the answer to that question), so Mark does not text him. 

**Mark:** I dont love seafood but im good otherwise  
**Johnny:** Great, I let her know  
**Johnny:** FYI I miss your fucking mouth

Mark's still too chicken to send a nude, but he's happy to one-handedly triple-text Johnny descriptions of how he wants Johnny to fuck his face, and he falls asleep in a sticky heap of satisfaction. 

Beyond thanking him again for doing him a solid, Johnny doesn't bring up the wedding again, and Mark shuffles his nerves about it to the back of his mind in order to focus on his nerves about his upcoming piano master class that he is in no way prepared for. He checks that his suit still fits, marks the mid-August date on his calendar app, and still resolutely does not tell Hyuck.

Then, after busking all dang day and then holding his knees to his chest while Johnny fucked him wordless, Johnny tells Mark his mom wants him to drive up to the suburbs the next weekend for pre-wedding planning stuff and home-cooked meals. "You're invited, too, by the way. She wants to feed you, since she thinks it's unfair I'm not paying you to help me, even though I'm not getting paid, either. Make it make sense."

It's so casual, tossed off as Johnny yawns and turns on some tunes for them to listen to before they crawl out of bed to clean themselves up, that he agrees without a second thought. "Sounds nice. This weekend?"

"Yeah, Saturday into Sunday evening, usually. You should bring swim trunks if you have them, since we have a pool."

"Oh, sweet."

Even if Mark balks at the idea of staying the night, he laughs at the way Johnny fondly complains that being an only child means his mom is obsessed with taking care of his friends. He gives Mark an up-and-down and clicks his tongue. "Ten's gonna be so jealous once she gets her claws in you."

Much later, he'll tear his hair out over missing all the blazingly obvious signs. But then, in the cocoon of Johnny's bed, their shoulders pressed together, hearing about how Johnny's mom made Jaehyun a cream cake when he moved in, how Ten helped his dad repaint their wainscoting, it seems like a good idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to follow me for progress updates, or just general nonsense, my twitter is [@sneakethsnek](https://twitter.com/sneakethsnek).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks yet again to my lovely Mon and Tay, and to everyone for putting up with me. 
> 
> This chapter is a lot!!!! I hope everyone likes it. 🍹
> 
> (Also, as a reminder, yeah, Johnny's parents and family are in this... but they aren't really Johnny's actual family. They just kinda look like them. Because privacy is important!)

It's not quite an hour to the Suhs' place from Mark's dorm, even though they stopped for Icees at a gas station. During the drive, Mark gave himself a brain freeze so bad that Johnny almost swerved the car into the next lane from laughing. With the windows rolled down, artificial cherry on his tongue, it feels like a normal, fun miniature road trip until they pull off I-94 and into residential streets. Then Mark's pulse starts racing. He shouldn't have had all that sugar, not before meeting Johnny's parents.

He feels rusty at human interaction, what with most of his friends not on campus for the summer and not having seen his own family in months. The concept of meeting the people who produced and raised Johnny Suh and who seem to adore Ten like a second son is a lot. 

There's a terror in him that says the Suhs will take one look at Johnny and him and _know_ , but Mark's very used to a flavor of that terror, so he shoves it down as far as it'll go and focuses on his surroundings.

It's a pretty average nice house, blending in with the block, with an expansive lawn. Johnny parks behind a shiny SUV that makes his old car stick out like a sore thumb, and he pops his sunglasses on top of his head and cracks a giant smile when he sees the garage door opening.

Mark wrestles his gym bag and backpack out of the backseat for something to do, and then he retrieves Johnny's rolling suitcase, too. He squints to see Johnny's mom waving from inside the house's access to the garage, house slippers on and lipstick very red even from a distance. Johnny grabs his suitcase from Mark and guides them through the tight squeeze past another car and well-organized garage clutter, much of it what Mark easily recognizes as Costco Mistakes.

"Maaaaaaa," Johnny crows, and drops his bag to wrap her up in his arms.

"Johnnnnyyy," she says, in much the same tone, and pushes him back to look at him, fussing with his hair until his sunglasses slip off the top of his head and he has to catch them. She kisses his cheek and pinches it for good measure. "Ah, you're using the moisturizer I got you, your skin is smoother." 

She dispenses with another cheek kiss as Johnny grumbles, then puts her hands on his shoulders to push him inside, turning to Mark with the same warm eyes as Johnny. He's stumbling forward, his hand outstretched, but she forgoes that entirely to cup his face and air kiss him, lips just shy of his cheek. "Mark! Welcome!"

Mark might not be jumping for joy every time some stranger touches him on the bus or a drunk friend gets too clingy at a party, but he's a mama's boy at heart. He melts at the attention, giggling anxiously because there's still so much on the line even if Johnny's mom is as friendly as her son—friendlier, really. 

They leave their shoes in the garage next to the stair leading to inside the house, his Vans and Johnny's Converse joining a neat row of Johnny's mom's flats and running shoes and a variety of work boots that must belong to his dad. Mark's used to a much more substantial pile at home, with his brother's habit of dumping mud-caked cleats on their dad's office shoes and his sister's riding boots always getting scuffed until she has a meltdown about it, and Mark feels a stab of nostalgia for the chaos.

Inside, the house smells like kimchi-jjigae, and Mark's nearly bowled over by it. 

"Dad is on the deck, go get him," Johnny's mom instructs Johnny, a hand on each of their shoulders. 

Johnny passes Mark a look, checking on him, but he's smiling so relaxed and simply happy that Mark gives him a nod. He can handle one mom on his own for a minute; Mark's had years of practice being the sort of kid his friends' parents call a good influence. And he was. Maybe he still is. It's just a lot harder, two years away from that person, to dredge that vibe up. Especially since he's intimately acquainted with Johnny's O-face and can't help but think about how different things would be if Johnny's mom knew.

\---

Johnny and his dad are out on the porch for a _while_ , long enough for Johnny's mom to plunk Mark down at the kitchen table, where there's already tea and lemonade and snacks. She chatters to him about the grilling Johnny's dad is doing, asks if he's hungry and offers him access to even more snacks, flutters around the kitchen cleaning things that don't need cleaning, and makes him taste the stew simmering on the stove. 

"It's really good," he says around his burned tongue and stinging sinuses. His palate's weakened by his campus cafeteria and many, many packets of instant ramyeon; if he had gone home to Canada this summer like usual, he would have been able to reacclimate to his mom's cooking (and stopped eating so much damn pizza, oh my God), but he hasn't, so the bone-deep familiar flavors zing brand new. It's been a while, too, since Hyuck's dragged him to Korean restaurant and then spent the next two days eviscerating the experience for not being as good as his family recipes. Mark sips his lemonade and thanks her again for her hospitality, this time in Korean, and she tuts at him.

"It's nice to have the house full, it gets boring with just us," she says. "Tell Johnny to come more often, and I'll feed you whatever you want." Mark laughs politely, and he worries she heard the truth of his nerves for a split second, as she freezes at the sink in the middle of drying a glass. "Oh!" She turns to face him, and the light in her eye is borderline wild. Mark shrinks back in his chair, clutching his lemonade, not sure what to expect. "Quickly, come with me, before Johnny's back."

Mark's bewildered but obeys without question, wincing at the scrape of his chair against the floor, and follows her until she stops in the living room. Johnny's mom points him to a plush couch and goes to dig around in the entertainment center. Mark perches himself on the edge of the seat, tugs at his shirt in case it wrinkled during the drive, and tries to keep his expression on a leash.

When Johnny's mom turns around, she's got photo albums piled in her arms, and Mark's confusion and tension nosedives. They share a conspiratorial smile.

"Johnny was a beautiful baby," she starts, settling next to him and putting the stack of albums on the coffee table. "He was so small, I never would have thought he would grow up to be so big." She runs a hand over the first book, stroking the cover lovingly like she can touch the memories inside. "Do you want to see?"

"Oh my gosh, please," Mark says, and they lean in together.

\---

Johnny groans so dramatically when he sees they've made it to his middle school album that his mom scolds him. He flops into a recliner opposite the couch to sulk while she points out his breakout role in a nativity play, his broken arm from a soccer game, and several pictures of Johnny in a comically oversized suit at a piano recital. Mark's smile keeps widening until his face hurts.

"He was so talented, but he never practices," she says, shaking her head. "All those lessons, for what?"

"Ma," Johnny says in a warning tone.

"My mom used to dock my allowance if I didn't practice," Mark says, hands itching to get to the next album, the high school album, where he knows all the real blackmail material is located. "I'm glad she did, or like, I would never have gotten into my program with just my guitar." 

"Did you hear that, Johnny? He's thankful his parents made him practice."

"Mark's a music major."

"And what are you, a man without hobbies?" she asks, arch. Mark is trying not to giggle at the way Johnny Suh, who could command a classroom of caffeinated undergrads, is blushing because of some garden-variety parental ribbing.

Mark hears the sliding-glass door open, a herald of Johnny's dad's arrival, and Marks holds his breath so intensely that he doesn't notice the high school album making an appearance at last. When Johnny's dad, carrying a huge tray of cooked meat, crosses through the living room, Mark tries to stand, but Johnny's mom yanks him right back down.

"Ya, put those _in_ the oven, don't just leave them on the counter to get cold," she shouts at her husband's retreating back, to which he says absolutely nothing. From the brief glimpse Mark got, Johnny looks less like his dad than he does his mom. The mystery of Johnny's height remains fully unsolved, given that he's probably a head shorter than his son, and he's wearing jeans with ironed creases in them even though it's roasting outside. "Johnny, help your father with the food."

"Mom…" He turns pleading eyes on her. "Mark just got here. Did you need to bust out all the baby pictures? Can you let me live until after dinner?"

"Hey, I'm having a great time," Mark says, to be a shit. His parents can and have done this to him—his mom kept his hair from after his first haircut, she can't resist a scrapbook—and it's nice to enjoy the baby-picture humiliation from the other side for once.

"I will worry about Mark. You worry about your father ruining dinner." Johnny sighs and pushes to his feet, grumbling the entire way to the kitchen, but Mark notes Johnny's mom closes the high school album and redirects his attention. "Did you bring a bathing suit? We have a pool."

"I did, yeah."

"You two should go for a dip tonight, when the sun is setting." She leans in, her son's mischievous feline smile curving her mouth. "I make margaritas and drink them in the water. It's like a vacation in the backyard. I'll make some tonight?"

"Ah, I'm not twenty-one just yet," he says, but it's so sweet she offered, and truthfully nothing sounds better than floating on his back and watching the sun set above him and the stars appear. Vancouver didn't have a ton of backyard pools, so it's always been part of his American fantasies.

"Do you think we check IDs here? You're an adult in my house. If you want a margarita, you have a margarita, Mark," she says, smiling, and he has a weird little chill down his spine that another grown human, a mom, looked at him and called him an _adult_. 

\---

Dinner is nice, if a little early for Mark's college-student tastes, and it turns out there was almost no reason for Mark to worry about meeting Johnny's dad. He's not some taller, older, scarier version of Johnny; he's quiet and polite and seems content to let his wife do most of the talking. 

When they bow their heads for grace, though, Johnny's dad is the one to lead the prayer, and his voice is so soft Mark nearly strains to hear him. It's so bizarre to close his eyes and pray at a kitchen table again; he did it every day of his life until two years ago, and now it's novel. When Mark closes his eyes, his mind puts him back home, enduring his dad making a whole damn speech that's as much a prayer as it is passive-aggressive lecture; the kids squirming impatiently, then half-screamed "amen" from eagerness to shovel food into their mouths. Johnny's house is sedate, compared to Mark's, but it's still a home, and Mark has been living in a soulless dorm for two years now.

It's possible Mark misses his family. A lot.

When Mark lifts his head and opens his eyes, his murmured "amen" tingling on his lips, Johnny smiles at him and nudges his foot under the table.

\---

She _does_ make them margaritas, hours after dinner and after the dessert she kept trying to feed them more portions of, when the sky has started to shift. The drink is bitingly cold and tart, and Mark finds himself shuddering, shirtless and up to his knees in the pool, from the combination of sensations. Johnny's already paddled to the other end, splashing around in a burst of energy, and he looks striking in the water, his hair slicked back from his face. Like a new person. 

"You should join us," Mark says, and she actually laughs at him. "No, really. It's your margarita tradition."

"You boys should enjoy your evening without old people hanging around," she says, patting his arm. "Tomorrow will be busy."

Some part of Mark forgot he's not just here to hang out, that Johnny's meant to be helping with wedding prep and Mark is his unofficial photography assistant. It feels, somehow, like he's in high school, having a sleepover at a friend's house. Except there's margaritas.

"Johnny, I'm leaving yours here." She sets the plastic cup down close to the edge of the pool. "Please stop splashing out all the water," she says, tone allowing for no argument. 

"Yes, Mom," Johnny says in Korean, dipping down until only his eyes are above the surface, looking penitent. It's so cute Mark laughs, the sound trapped in his own plastic cup. He suspects the deference is actually a quiet apology for his tattoo.

Funnily enough, the most Johnny's mom did when he strolled past her in his swim trunks, ink on display, was sigh and shake her head. She was clearly forewarned, and with Mark present, there's little chance of a huge dressing down. He imagines she had a lot to say in Johnny's texts, though.

Johnny stands up to his full height when she goes inside and wades over to pick up his margarita. Mark goes down a step, now submerged to his thighs, and hisses. The water is not that cold, and it's plenty warm out at this hour, but as usual his body is prickly when it comes to change. 

Johnny gulps down half of his cup and studies Mark's progress. Mark studies Johnny, gaze tracing his faint abs, the tightness of his nipples, the dark shape of his tattoo with beads of water dotting it, making it gleam, until the aftercare instructions he read flash through his mind. "Hey, should you be swimming with that?"

"It's healed," Johnny says dismissively. "I'm good."

The aftercare sheet said to avoid swimming for four weeks, and they're shy of that. The ice he's been swallowing seems to hit his gut all at once. "Uh, I really think that you should be careful, at least keep your chest out—"

Johnny's sloshing closer to him, shoulders broad, eyes intense. Mark almost backs up a step, out of the water, but holds still. "Can you relax for a minute, Mark? I promise I'm fine."

In no way can Mark relax when Johnny's risking his health and also closing in on him like a shark. Even though it's happening in front of his eyes, and Johnny's gaze is unmistakable, Mark's hand spasms around his cup in shock when Johnny puts a wet hand on Mark's bare chest. 

"Ah, oh my God, your parents—" Mark says, craning his neck in the direction of the back deck, horror filling him as Johnny wriggles Mark's death grip on his cup loose and sets it on the concrete. Johnny's other hand encircles Mark's wrist and tugs, gentle but insistent.

"You can't see out here from inside," Johnny points out, which Mark already guessed but somehow doesn't help, because Johnny's mom could come back at any time, to top off their margaritas or because she changed her mind and wants a dip. "It's fine. Come on."

He stops touching Mark's chest and tugs again, leading Mark by baby steps, and it's easier to let himself follow. His hesitation is still written all over him, though, because Johnny stops once the water is up to Mark's waist and huffs at him.

"Mark, whatever you're worried about, don't be, dude. I've been out to my parents since I was seventeen. If they catch us back here, it'll be a regular amount of awkward, not a huge deal."

Maybe it's that he's still not acclimated to the water, or maybe he's just not great with having his whole world blown wide open, because he starts shaking, and Johnny's patient smile is disappearing fast under his worry. "Uh," Mark says, trying very hard, "that's cool."

He has no idea how Johnny did it, how he came out as a teenager, an age when Mark was still furiously burying his own nature, and how it is so easy for him to be around his parents when they _know_ , somehow. 

"Do they know about me?" The slush of the margarita turns unpleasantly sour in his belly. "Like, do they know…?"

Johnny frowns. The sky above them is bruising like a peach, and Mark can't even stand to look at it, just sees it out of focus behind Johnny's head. "I mean," he says slowly, "I've been talking about you a lot lately, so my mom might suspect something is up, but no. They don't know we're sleeping together." 

Mark nods, and he can't handle looking at Johnny directly anymore, brain still buzzing with questions that aren't his business. "Sorry if I'm being weird," he says, studying the outline of his legs in the distortion of the water. 

"I'm an adult, Mark, and my parents respect that." Johnny's voice is low, caught between the two of them. His fingers are still locked around Mark's wrist, and he drags their joined hands through the water, back and forth, creating a little wave. Mark hears the gurgle of the pool filter and the swishing of wind through the plant life in Johnny's parents' yard. "No one's gonna care if I kiss a cute boy in my pool."

That at least gets Mark to laugh, and he looks up. "Is that what this is?"

Johnny shrugs, the sharp contours of his face softening as Mark wades closer until their legs are brushing, Mark narrowly avoiding stepping on Johnny's toes. "It could be."

"I guess I've always wanted to wild out in a pool," Mark says, though just having had an open drink in the water more than meets that qualification for him. "Never had the opportunity."

Johnny rests his hand on Mark's hip, thumb stroking over the band of Mark's trunks. It makes sense that his lower half feels weightless, he's literally in a pool, but Johnny also makes him feel like this, like he might lose his tether to the ground and float. 

"Me, either," Johnny confesses, and slides his wet hand over Mark's shoulder to cup his face, leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

"We should seize the opportunity, then," Mark says. 

Even though Mark's still tense thinking that Johnny's mom could appear at any moment, his body wants to sway toward Johnny, wants this as bad as Johnny does. Johnny reels him in but walks backward at the same time, slipping deeper into the water. He only stops once he's steered them to the edge of the pool and Johnny's leaning against it. He tugs Mark close, the water lapping at Mark's chest because of the sudden motion, tightening his nipples.

He kisses Mark's neck first, which is a surprise, and Mark makes a noise, sliding his palm over Johnny's hip.

"You're so cute," Johnny groans, licking Mark's neck and surely tasting chlorine from his own touch there. "Fuck, I don't think you have any idea."

"Maybe some." Mark tries to be coy as Johnny's teeth are sinking into his flesh, prickles of sensation overloading his body in a hurry. "I get a lot of compliments from old ladies."

He nips at Mark's chin, but Mark's not given any time to do more than gasp; Johnny's already chasing his mouth, tasting like lime and pool water, like summer. Mark crowds against him, letting Johnny lick sloppy over and into his mouth, rough his lips up with the force of the kissing. He has no idea why it's this intense, but he's not gonna complain when it feels so good, with the silkiness of the water surrounding him and the way Johnny's ass feels under Mark's palm, the rumble of his moan into Mark's mouth.

"Yo, I'm not fucking you in this pool, I'm drawing the line right now," he pants, squeezing his eyes closed when Johnny goes back to scraping his teeth over Mark's neck. He remembers he might have to do a walk of shame back inside and encounter the Suhs, so he steers Johnny away in a hurry, hoping against hope there's no marks yet. "Chill out, jeeze," he laughs when Johnny just switches to the other side.

Johnny pulls back immediately, lips parted, waiting for instruction, and he's so hot Mark can't stand it. He slides his hand into Johnny's wet hair and makes a fist, dragging him back down to his mouth. It's a gentle hold, but it gets his point across, and Johnny, as he's learned by now, likes it when Mark gets grabby.

"Just kiss me," Mark says, breathing hard and bumping their lips as he speaks. "Like this."

Johnny groans again, and his arms encircle Mark's waist until he's hoisting Mark up, aided by the buoyancy of the water. Mark tries to wrap his legs around him but can't, just knocks his shins and feet against the abrasive pool wall. 

"I got you," Johnny murmurs, before giving him an unexpectedly soft and mellow kiss.

He brings them back to the middle of the pool, until Mark can wrap around him like an octopus. They trade kisses for so long, slow and bruising and half-hard in their trunks, Mark doesn't notice the sun go down and the pool lights take over, making everything glow.

\---

Mark sneaks inside unseen by the Suhs and showers. He's lucky Johnny's nippy self didn't leave lasting marks because Mark would have absolutely no way of concealing them. Once he's clean and in his pyjamas—an old shirt and a pair of loose basketball shorts over his boxers—he wanders downstairs to find Johnny. He runs into him in the kitchen, eating cold leftover kalbi and with a bowl of ice cream set out to melt on the counter. He's in sleep pants and a T-shirt that looks more worn than Mark's, with little holes at the collar and hem. 

"Hey," Mark says. He's keeping his voice low to respect the afterglow of how he and Johnny wound each other up for ages and then jerked off alone in their respective showers. He's also mindful of the Suhs in the living room.

Johnny hums around his mouthful and offers Mark a bite with greasy fingers, and Mark waves him off. He's not hungry, but he is thirsty, so he asks where the glasses are and goes to make himself a nice drink of ice water from the dispenser in the fridge.

"Do you want to sleep with me?" Johnny asks, so low Mark almost doesn't hear him over the churning of ice and subsequent clink of it into his glass.

"What?" he hisses, turning around and jerking the glass out of position, so some ice clatters onto the floor.

Johnny snickers and comes forward to pick it up, tossing the cubes into the sink. "I meant do you want to sleep in my room or the guest room. My mom put your bag in my room, but you don't have to bunk with me."

"Uh." Mark tries to wrap his mind around Johnny's mom putting his stuff in Johnny's room, with its _one bed_ , and can't do it. "I don't…"

"Ten sleeps with me when he's here, most of the time," Johnny says casually, though still quieter than usual, and his eyes are too amused as he watches Mark stand there, struck silent. "He usually brings edibles, and we boot up my old PS3."

That sounds kinda fun, minus the _high in Johnny's parents' house_ part; it reminds him even more of the kind of sleepovers he never got but always wanted to experience growing up. Mark takes a moment to finally fill his glass with water and then gives himself another to drink a few sips. Johnny, in the meantime, washes his hands and tucks into his bowl of ice cream.

"If you're uncomfortable, just crash in the guest room," Johnny says. He takes another bite and then, for some reason, lets the spoon dangle from his mouth. 

Mark shakes his head. He's uncomfortable, sure, but he's usually uncomfortable, and he's learning quick that the rules of Johnny's life are very different from what he's used to. "I'll crash with you, it's fine."

Johnny grins and tugs the spoon out of his mouth. "Good," he says, plunking the bowl down on the counter while Mark looks on in confusion. He grabs Mark's arm and walks them, Mark trying not to stumble, toward the living room, but he lets go before they exit the darkened hallway. 

The Suhs are sitting in their night clothes and robes. Johnny's mom is on the couch and buried in a book with a pair of glasses on, and Johnny's dad is in a recliner watching what seems like a documentary, his slippered feet rolling at the ankles as if to a song only he can hear. They look up when Johnny appears, Mark cautious at his heels.

"Mom, Dad, we're upstairs for the night. What time is Grace coming over tomorrow?" Grace is the bride to be, and apparently she's one of Johnny's favorite cousins, which is probably why Johnny seems to be so chill with being press-ganged into offering his services for free.

"After breakfast," Johnny's mom says. "Do you want me to wake you two?"

"No, we'll be up in time for breakfast. Thanks, Mom." He bends to kiss the top of her head, and she reaches up to pat his cheek.

He doesn't kiss his dad, but he squeezes his shoulder, and it's so cute Mark could die. Johnny's parents are so nice, one of them funny and chatty and the other calm and steady. Being around the three of them as a family unit is weird but cool for Mark, who is in no way an only child and grew up friends with people from big families, too. His parents were also much younger than the Suhs were when they started having kids. It's not what he's used to, but it's nice; Johnny is both of his parents but also not, and they clearly adore him, even his quiet dad, who smiled to himself after Johnny came over to say goodnight.

"Goodnight, Mr. Suh, Mrs. Suh," Mark says from behind Johnny, peeking out to wave. 

"Mark, you tell Johnny if you need anything," Johnny's mom demands, and raises her eyebrows at him above her glasses until he agrees. "Johnny, don't stay up all night playing games. You have a full day tomorrow."

"Yes, Mom," Johnny says, and it sounds like it comes from years of routine, the same half-assed agreement Mark's given his parents a thousand times. "Night."

\---

Mark had to remind Johnny of his half-finished ice cream sitting on the counter, and Mark's ice water, and Johnny groaned and bolted back down the stairs to take care of it. It gives Mark a few minutes to look around Johnny's childhood bedroom. He doesn't go poking in any drawers or closets, only examines the paraphernalia on display, from Johnny's music posters to the corkboard covered in pictures and notes and cards. It's clear the Suhs haven't made any effort to turn Johnny's childhood bedroom into something more like a regular guest room; it's still Johnny's room, even if it's frozen in time.

It's impossible not to notice the Pride flag Johnny has hanging above his bed, more dominant than any of his posters. He said he was seventeen when he came out, and Mark envisions seventeen-year-old Johnny, with the scene-kid hair Mark noticed in a couple of pictures around the house, tacking up the flag with shaking hands. He's got some volleyball trophies, too, and his bookshelves are overflowing with too many books for Mark to count, most of them looking like horror and YA. There's a Bible in a place of honor, on its own little stand with the cover facing outward. It's not too dissimilar to the one Mark's parents got him when he was born. The gold-lettered inscription on the front has Johnny's date of birth and the name Seo Young Ho in Hangul.

Mark draws back from the bookshelf and sits on Johnny's bed, not waiting long before hearing his footsteps in the hall. Johnny's got two bottles of water with him, and he tosses one at Mark, who almost fumbles it, then closes the door.

"Is it weird that we went upstairs so soon?" Mark asks, twisting off the cap. "They probably wanted to hang out with their son some more, I don't know."

Johnny snorts and sits down on the bed. "Trust me, my family likes their quiet time." He watches while Mark drinks some of his water, and it's odd being stared at when they're only a few feet apart on the same bed, Mark near the foot and Johnny closer to the pillows. "The master is downstairs, too, so they'll sleep through anything."

Mark screws the lid back on more tightly than is necessary, until his fingers strain. "Johnny," he says, wanting to wriggle under the continued scrutiny but also incredulous because Johnny is ridiculous, "for real?"

Johnny isn't fazed; he shrugs and tilts his head, smiling faintly. "Sue me for being into having a hot guy in my bedroom."

"I've been in your bedroom tons," Mark points out, once he feels like he isn't going to sputter it. He's much quieter than his usual volume, still not able to shake off the feeling that they're getting away with something that could get them in a lot of trouble, that they need to be careful.

"Not this one," Johnny says, tone silky and private. Mark jerked off in the shower earlier and came hard doing it, too; it seems impossible he should be flushing hot the way he is, all at once. "Not here, where I realized I wanted to suck cock, where I used to jerk myself raw thinking about it." He narrows his eyes at the way Mark's chest is moving with his sudden accelerated breaths. What the fuck is Johnny doing to him. "All those years in high school, all those fantasies, and I couldn't have even come close to dreaming you up."

Mark whimpers, a sound so embarrassing his voice cracks in the middle of it. "Jesus, Johnny."

Johnny keeps his steady, flaying gaze on Mark, but he makes no move to close the gap between him. Mark would let him do it; there's no fight in him even if there's a pulsing guilt at the idea that he's going to fuck Johnny Suh in his childhood bedroom right under his parents' noses, which is, like, so disrespectful. But he wants it. Mark could never, ever let Johnny touch him in his bedroom back home (not least because he shared it with his brother), but he recognizes the ache of wanting something so bad, alone and overwhelmed in the dark, trying to keep quiet. The idea of giving that to Johnny is enough to make him feel drunk.

"You want me?" Mark asks, not the greatest at dirty talk, but Johnny's eyes darken. "You want me to suck you off right here in this bed?"

Johnny runs his tongue over his full bottom lip, like there's a taste there he wants to savor. "I want you to beg me for it."

Mark's mouth goes dry, and the water bottle he's still holding is totally forgotten until it rolls out of his lax grip and onto the bed. "Whatever you want," he breathes.

Johnny manhandles him, pushing him down and climbing on top of him so fast Mark isn't sure where on the bed they are, what position they ended up in. Johnny's clean hair is in his face, tickling him when they kiss, and Johnny's mouth is a brand. He kissed Johnny for what felt like an hour tonight, his lips are still a little raw from it, but it's like the first time. 

Johnny's mostly hard dick is pressing against his stomach, and Mark's behind him but getting there. He doesn't typically have the recovery for multiple rounds in a day the way Johnny does, but the rest of his body is so aroused from the way Johnny spoke to him, the way they're inhabiting the here and now as much as they are the depths of Johnny's imagination. 

It feels like Mark snuck in through Johnny's window, like Johnny's hand slipping under his shirt and grasping at the soft give of his stomach, the shape of his pec, is the first time he's been touched like that. Mark moans from it, then catches himself and bites his lip. 

"They won't hear." Johnny mouths over Mark's cheek to his ear, where he blows softly, laughing at the way Mark makes a noise like a peep and grips Johnny's shoulder. "It's just you and me." He tugs at Mark's shirt, evidently over his under-the-clothes exploration, and Mark wriggles when needed to help him. The shirt coming off knocks his glasses askew, and this is usually when Johnny takes them off, or at least adjusts them for him, but he doesn't. He stares down at Mark's heaving chest, his narrow shoulders and the rangiest of muscles in his biceps, and Mark gaping up at him with crooked glasses. "You're so fucking pretty," he grunts, and dives for Mark's mouth again.

He gets his own hands under Johnny's baggy T-shirt, skirting over his warm skin. When Johnny starts kissing down to Mark's nipples, with none of his usual patience and skill, just fitting his mouth over one and sucking, Mark throbs in his shorts. "Oh," he says, clinging to Johnny's back. "Please. _Johnny._ "

Johnny pauses for the smallest of moments. Then he sucks again, harder, like a punishment, like he knows exactly what Mark's doing.

Mark barely knows what Mark is doing, but that's pretty much the usual.

He groans, self-conscious of how delicate he tries to make it, and slips one hand down to toy with the band of Johnny's sleep pants. "I want it," he says, and Johnny stops playing with him, his mouth still close to Mark's skin, tickling him with each warm exhale. The way he's trembling against Mark gives him the courage to say, "Please, I wanna taste your cock."

"Fuck," Johnny says, meanly, and doesn't let himself enjoy it for long; he pulls back and starts yanking off his clothes, the T-shirt tossed so hard Mark hears it land, and gets his pants off in a hurry. His cock slaps against his stomach once he's naked, red and sticky at the tip. "Get those off and come here," he says, jamming pillows between his back and the headboard and spreading his thighs to fit Mark between them.

Mark works his shorts down and kicks them aside, his sensitive dick bobbing between his thighs, and they haven't turned off the light for this, so he's in full technicolor as he crawls on all fours between Johnny's legs. "Can I keep my glasses on?" It's a gamble, one he's pretty sure about, but he keeps his focus on Johnny's body, too shy of his face. 

"Yeah, you look so cute in them." He strokes Mark's cheek, right where his moles are. "You ready?" he asks. "God, just wanna see you kiss it."

Mark lowers his head, careful of his glasses, and hesitates just a second before pursing his lips and barely grazing the tip. Like he's never done this before. Like the salt he licks in the next second is a surprise, like the way Johnny steadies his chin and uses his other hand to tap the crown against Mark's lips is brand new. He crawls closer on his belly and elbows, braced against Johnny's thigh, staring at his cock in open-mouthed want and intimidation.

"You taste so good," he manages. Johnny's long groan immediately releases some of Mark's tension, and he bobs his head to give him a careful, unsure suck. 

It's not quite real, this half-fantasy he and Johnny are in, but the way Mark is shy and desperate for it, none of that's fake. The nervous, wide-eyed glances he darts up to Johnny come from a very real part of Mark that worries he looks stupid, that wants to do a good job. The other part of him is just way horny for it and can't believe how responsive Johnny is.

"Mark, shit," Johnny says, hoarsely, hand to his jaw. 

Mark rubs the flat of his tongue over Johnny's slit, messier than he would normally let himself get. His next gamble is even bigger, but the strangeness of the night gives him the courage he needs to make it. After pulling off with a slurp, he doesn't need to fake his stammering as he says, "Don't come on my face, okay? You can… come in my mouth but please not near my glasses, 형." He says the _형_ so fast, it sounds like an accident; he thought about _bro_ , but it wasn't exactly the connotation. 

Like he's sticking his hand into a fire, Mark braces himself to look up to see how that went. 

Johnny looks like Mark punched him. He gapes like he's offended, and he doesn't make a sound. The moment suspends, Mark's heart pounding in his chest, his eyes locked with Johnny's. It breaks when Johnny wraps a hand around the base of his dick and writhes.

"Jesus _fuck_ I can't," he pants, this time directing his shock at the ceiling. Mark watches his throat as he swallows and feels invincible, for just a moment. "Get up here, I'm losing my mind."

Mark kisses his hip and pops back onto all fours, maneuvering as Johnny pulls him until he's held against his chest. "I thought you wanted me to beg?" Mark gazes up to see Johnny shake his head, eyes glittering.

"I didn't realize you'd try to kill me with it," he mutters, and Mark snickers and lets himself be kissed as one-hundred percent himself. 

When they stop to breathe, Johnny's relaxed more and Mark's rubbing his dick against Johnny's soft skin in lazy pushes. "Is there anything else you wanted to do?" Mark asks, circling Johnny's nipple with a finger until he shivers. "I was kidding about not coming on my face. Just let me take off my glasses first."

Johnny laughs and catches Mark's hand in his own so he'll stop playing with Johnny's nipple. "We can come like this, I don't mind." He pushes at Mark's hip so Mark's next grind against him is sharper, sweeter.

"You sure? You finally get a boy in your room and you just want him to rub off on your abs?" Mark teases.

Johnny's expression is inscrutable to Mark, except he can tell that Johnny's thinking. He feels a new wave of anxiety that he shouldn't have made his joke, that he's missing something. It's hard to not apologize, to wait it out. 

"I want you to fuck me, actually," Johnny says, level, and takes a sharp inhale. "I don't know if that's something you'd want to try, especially here. I get it if it's not. But if you're down," he says, fingers flexing across Mark's ass, "there's lube and condoms in my bag."

Mark stiffens against Johnny's chest. It's not that he doesn't want to, or that it's even a surprising ask given how much Johnny likes having his prostate played with, the way he grunts and asks for more fingers, but Mark's had his dick in one person to date and it wasn't… awesome. "Okay," he says, so Johnny doesn't think he's upset or something while he's organizing his thoughts. "I'm down," he says as firmly as he can, peering up to see Johnny's tense mouth relax at the admission. "Your ass is— Uh, I want to, I just… I only topped once and I don't think I was any good at it."

Johnny hasn't made him feel bad about the other weird or clumsy shit he's said and done during sex, so Mark's not afraid of being laughed at, but it doesn't feel great to admit.

Fingers tip his chin up so Johnny can nuzzle his nose and cheek. "You just need practice," he murmurs, and Mark sighs when Johnny nips his ear. "You can practice on me."

"Okay," he agrees, happy he's lying down on Johnny so he doesn't go weak-kneed at the idea. "I should get up for the condoms, huh," he says after a beat, though Johnny seems in no hurry to unclamp his arm from around Mark.

"Mhm," Johnny says around Mark's earlobe, but then he releases his hold so Mark can crawl off the bed. 

Mark feels like he floats over to Johnny's bag across the room, and he digs around until he comes up with the supplies. When he turns back, Johnny is fisting his cock, lip between his teeth as he watches. "Get the light, too," he instructs, and Mark does, plummeting them into dimness—not darkness, since Johnny's curtains are pulled back enough to let in illumination from the streetlights. 

He reaches behind him for the knob on Johnny's door and, to his relief, feels a little lock there. Mark twists it and grins in the shadows.

\---

Johnny groans into Mark's mouth and bites his lips sore while Mark opens him up. He tries to take his time, but Johnny fists his hair and asks him to go faster more every time he slows down. He's up to three fingers and has spilled lube all over Johnny's bedspread (and his thighs), but that's a problem for tomorrow's Mark to worry about.

"Mark, I'm good," Johnny groans as Mark tries to press at his prostate. "Pull out for a second." 

He figures Johnny knows his own body, so he unhurriedly slips his fingers out. He has no idea why he's sad over losing tight, clenching heat on his fingers when he's moments away from getting his dick in there instead, but he is. 

Johnny sits up from his pile of pillows. Mark kneels to wait while he gets comfortable, but it turns out that's not actually what's happening. Instead, Johnny opens a condom and works it onto Mark's cock, barely looking because of course he can do it by touch alone. He jerks Mark a few times, making sure the condom is fully unrolled, as Mark huffs from the stimulation. He taps Mark's hand for the lube and uncaps it, then lets a stream of it pool in his palm. "Always forget how big you are," Johnny says, like he's marvelling at Mark's heft in his slippery grip. 

Mark laughs too loud. "Uh-huh, yeah, _my_ dick is big, you tripod." His heart is pounding, and only half from being turned on; as much as he wants to, he can't shoo away the memory of his disastrous attempt at topping. He was sweaty and nervous and utterly unable to find a rhythm, just stabbing his hips forward, slipping out every few thrusts, and giving the guy an equally uncoordinated reach-around. But this is different. Johnny will help him.

"You're not the one about to sit on it," Johnny says, discarding the lube. "Trade places with me."

 _Oh God_. Numb, Mark crawls forward and then flips onto his back, barely even registering that now he's on the lube stain. He stares up at Johnny, mouth dropped open, as Johnny straddles him. Streetlights catch the sharpness of his chin, his cheekbones. His weight settles nice against Mark, who was worried for half a second that Johnny might squish him. 

Instinctively, Mark draws his knees up as more support to make sure Johnny doesn't tip backward, but Johnny shakes his head.

"I've got this." He reaches behind himself to grasp Mark's cock, settling onto his knees and spreading himself further. He holds Mark almost too tight, basically a stranglehold on his dick, and Mark gasps when he feels the tip push against resistance and then start to slide in. "Fuck, Mark."

For all the impatience Johnny displayed when Mark was prepping him, he takes his sweet time now, bearing down so slow as Mark squeezes his hips. He stops halfway, shoving his bangs out of his eyes, and gives Mark a mumbled, "It's been a while" that makes Mark twitch inside the vice grip of his hole.

"No rush." Mark tries to lie as still as possible. "We can change the angle if this isn't working."

"Nah, I'm fine." He takes in another inch, maybe, and Mark feels how tense he is, sees the rigidity of his abs and how his dick is starting to flag. Mark tries to be helpful by wrapping his hand around it and jerking him slow, if a little dry, to keep his dick interested, but Johnny says, "I'll come either way, don't worry about it."

Mark's eyebrows go up, but he puts himself to better use by rubbing over Johnny's nipple. His hand looks starkly pale so close to the black of the tattoo, even in the relative dark. "You're really into this, huh?" 

Johnny doesn't say anything; he just works his hips until Mark's balls are flush with his ass. The squeeze of him is brutal, but it's nothing compared to the way he's staring down at Mark, face twisted into grimace and a smile, as he deliberately tightens around him. "Is it good, Mark-ya?" he asks, drawing out the vowel so it sounds like when Mark’s mom says his name. "Am I tight for you?"

Mark's eyes roll back. He endures Johnny's smug laughter and the way he starts moving, using Mark's cock rather than continuing to show off, until Johnny hits the spot he's looking for and moans. He doesn't have to do anything to make it incredible; Mark's balls tighten every time he manages to see the way Johnny looks riding him, back arching, cock swaying with the movement.

"You feel so fucking good." It's true, Mark is going to come in no time if Johnny keeps this up, but he says it because he figures if Johnny can do him the solid of taking Mark's dick, it's the least he can do to be appreciative. 

Johnny rewards him by grinding down harder, though it's clear from his cut-off breaths that he's mostly interested in beating up his prostate. He fucks himself harder and faster, the dirty thwack of skin on skin intensifying, and the bed shakes under Mark's back. Every once in a while, he tightens up on the way down, forcing a moan out of Mark. 

"You gonna come soon?" Johnny asks, and what little sting he probably meant to put in it is absent given how wrecked he sounds. "Or do you want to get some practice in?"

"If you want me to try, it needs to be soon," Mark pants, and Johnny's grin is feral.

Johnny puts his hand on Mark's sternum while he leverages himself off with a wince. Before Mark can deal with the sudden relief of not being held tight and hot in his body, Johnny's rearranging himself on the mattress. Mark gets onto his hands and knees, somehow, despite the pleasure-drunk weakness in his limbs. He gets a front-row seat to Johnny's long, long legs being pulled to his chest and Johnny's asshole, twitching and wet with lube, that Mark can't help but slip his thumb into. It sinks in so easy, but Johnny's body doesn't want to let him go, sucking him deeper even as he tries to pull out.

"Fuck," Mark says with feeling, and he catches Johnny's heavy-lidded gaze above his knees. 

"Yeah," Johnny agrees, the word low and tissue-thin. "C'mon." His arm hooks under his knee so he can spread himself wider, so Mark can fit.

Mark shuffles forward on his knees until he's pressed up against him, and oh boy, it's something else to see it from his angle. His shaking hand wrapped just below the head, rubbing his cock over Johnny in testing passes. Before, Mark just had to lie still and let Johnny do all the work, but now he's got to make it good himself. And he wants to, so bad; he wants Johnny as wrecked for it as Mark feels in his position, when Johnny works him over until he's mindless. If he can make it even a third that good, he'll have done the fucking impossible. Mark's lack of skill weighs on him, and he's never tried topping in this position before, but the way Johnny moans when Mark slips the tip inside makes it easier to forget.

"Don't worry so much," Johnny says. "Take your time."

So he goes, inch by aching inch, watching Johnny's body swallow his cock. He can't decide where to look—at Johnny's expression, his parted, swollen mouth, the way his nostrils flare when Mark puts a palm to Johnny's thigh and gently urges his leg higher, or Johnny's ass taking him deep, Johnny's cock hard and sticky against his belly.

When he bottoms out, when there's nothing else to give but little hitches of his hips, Mark realizes he's lightheaded from holding his breath. He rests for a second, his cheek against Johnny's forearm, lungs shuddering. Johnny moves under him the smallest amount, getting comfortable; it's gotta be hell on him to basically bend in half when there's so much of him to fold up.

"You all right?" Johnny asks, still barely over a murmur.

"It's so— _God_ , Johnny." Mark's voice trembles as much as his body. His hips are still working, unconsciously grinding deep into Johnny like he can't bear to give up the feel of being in him for a second, not even to thrust for real.

"I know." He slings one of his legs onto Mark's shoulder, and it frees him up to touch Mark, carding through his hair, fingers so gentle Mark shivers. "Don't worry about drawing it out. I want you to fuck me. Can you do that for me, Mark?" His thumb rubs Mark's bottom lip. 

"Yeah, I think, yeah—" Mark attempts to pull out enough to make fucking back inside matter at all. The sensation is devastating in both directions, and the slap of his hips against Johnny's body when he's back in gives him goosebumps. Johnny smiles, teeth peeking from behind his lips. To Mark's frustration, he slips out entirely on his second attempt, too eager. "Oh man, sorry."

Shame burns him as he grasps his cock and fumbles to line it up.

"Next time, not so far." The hand at Mark's face disappears only to appear at his side like an encouragement. "Like that," he says, when Mark pushes back all the way, his fingers clenching. "Shit, you're so close to hitting it. Pull out a little—"

"Higher?" Mark's already obeying, tugging his cock free to just below the head. He stills his hips, waiting for Johnny to tell him what to do, if he's right. 

"Mhm," he breathes, and Mark gathers all his strength and steadiness to shove Johnny's legs up higher and hold him in place. "Fuck me, come on," Johnny urges, dull nails scraping the skin over Mark's ribs. His cock rests against his stomach, swollen and darkening near the head. When Mark jabs his hips in and up, precome dribbles out of Johnny and he gasps. "Oh, _yes_ , Mark."

Mark doesn't try anything fancy: he holds Johnny in place and pulls out halfway, then fucks back in, and does that over and over again, watching with delight and relief as Johnny's mouth falls open, his eyes squeeze shut, and his cock drips. "Is it good?" he asks, hungry for validation beyond what Johnny's body betrays.

"Gonna make me come," Johnny moans. He makes a sound Mark's never heard before, whiny and breaking at the end, when Mark fucks him harder. 

Mark kisses whatever parts of Johnny he can reach, because all he wants to do is pant and moan into Johnny's open mouth. He smears his mouth on his knee, the wrist of the arm Johnny has hooked under it. Mark's body is screaming at him, not used to the way he's both holding Johnny up and relentlessly moving his hips, and his stomach feels like he's stoking coals inside of it.

"Mark, oh my God," Johnny whispers, and Mark _feels_ him tense all over as he starts to come, squirming as Mark fucks him through it. The white that jets across his stomach and chest is mesmerizing, each spurt accompanied by a tight clench around Mark's cock, and he drinks up the sight greedily. His head's spinning with the fact that he, with his stupid rabbit thrusts and pathetic lack of experience, made Johnny Suh blow untouched. Johnny's not as loud as usual, but his face is scrunched like he's in pain, even as he presses Mark closer.

All at once, Johnny goes from being wound up from the intensity of his orgasm to lax; his arms fall to his side and his legs end up akimbo, rattling around with each of Mark's thrusts. The expression on his face is dazed.

"Johnny," Mark says, absolutely wrecked and a warning. "I'm gonna— Do you need me to stop?"

Johnny groans but shakes his head, and Mark surges forward and shoots in the very next second, each pulse he feels inside the condom making him wonder what it would be like without it. Mark finds himself open-mouthed moaning against whatever part of Johnny he's pressed up against as his orgasm turns him inside out.

Selfishly, he lets himself lie on Johnny for too long, drifting in his warmth and the way Johnny's petting his hair and murmuring reassuring nonsense Mark can't even parse. He knows he needs to get up, to pull out, to give Johnny a break and an opportunity to clean up—Mark remembers vividly how ripped open he feels in the aftermath, but his body won't move. It won't give up the space in Johnny's body, even as Mark's cock softens.

Eventually, the sweat drying on his body and the nagging guilt for keeping Johnny in this position means he can lift his head. His vision is blurry with sweat, but he can make out Johnny, the raw, fucked-out exhaustion on his face. There's something else there, too, something Mark can't name.

"Thank you," Johnny whispers. He swallows hard, and Mark wallows in the look in his eyes until he can't stand it anymore.

\---

When he's in the hallway near the top of the stairs, he sees that lights on the first floor are still on. Mark has no idea what time it is, no idea when they even went upstairs in the first place, and the knowledge that he just fucked Johnny with his parents awake hits a lot different when he's not in the middle of it.

Johnny said they wouldn't hear, but neither of them was particularly great about being quiet. 

Mark is slow to clean himself up and then wet a washcloth for Johnny, avoiding himself in the bathroom mirror. His body is satisfied, dreamy; he feels outside of it, like it belongs to someone else. Mark's brain is winding up like a top about to be set loose to spin, though.

Every step he takes that creaks the hallway floor, the awareness of water running through the pipes, and even his own pulse, all of it feels impossibly loud, like it's giving him away. Like he's burgling them, badly, and they're about to call the cops. 

Back inside the bedroom, Johnny has stripped the bedspread and given himself a cursory wipedown with his old T-shirt. He takes the sodden cloth from Mark and cleans more thoroughly, making a face at the mess of lube between his legs, then tosses it onto the pile of discarded bedspread. He slips on his sleep pants with a sigh and flops onto the bed.

"You were gone so long I almost passed out," Johnny says, scooting himself closer to the wall and window. His face is lit up by his phone screen, sleepy eyes half open, and then he slips it under his pillow. Mark hopes the pillows they're going to sleep on were buried far under the pile they fucked on. 

"Sorry. What time is it?"

"Close to midnight," Johnny says, turning onto his side to watch Mark climb onto the bed and settle. "I set an alarm for eight, so we can shower before breakfast."

Mark pushes his pillow into better support for his neck and turns to Johnny, too, who draws the sheet up over both of them. There's not much room for two full-grown men in a double, but the little slice of distance between them seems to taunt Mark to cross it. He wants to; he likes touching Johnny, and he did just… kind of leave him covered in his own come to quietly freak out in the bathroom for a few minutes.

Johnny erases the distance without so much as glancing at it, wrapping his arms around Mark and nestling his head in the curve of Mark's neck and shoulder. It catches Mark by surprise, but he quickly slings his arm over Johnny's back in return. He's a human being; he knows how to hold someone, even if it isn't his first instinct, even in moments like this.

Johnny's not heavy, most of his weight on the mattress, but it's also not exactly the comfiest position for Mark to try to drift off in. Still, it's nice, Johnny's even breaths against Mark's shirt, the way Mark gets to take care of him, to make up for all of his mistakes that Johnny's too nice to point out—like running the fuck away instead of making sure Johnny was okay, that he wasn't hurt or overwhelmed. 

"I'm glad it was you," Johnny says, the vibration of his voice startling Mark. "I'm glad I got to do this with you."

A swell of feeling rises in Mark's chest and clogs his throat. Johnny's voice is so soft and earnest. "Me, too," he says uselessly, and presses his palm flat to Johnny's bare back, feeling him exhale. "Night, Johnny."

"Night, baby," Johnny mumbles.

\---

Even though, in his sleep, Johnny pulls away and faces the wall, Mark is awake for hours. 

He finds himself praying in the hopes it will deflate the pressure in his chest, stop the burning behind his eyes. Mark doesn't want to be awake at some nameless hour, subsumed by guilt and confusion. He wants to be normal, the sort of person who can hold Johnny as he falls asleep and not worry about what it meant that Johnny called him _baby_ like that, outside of sex. 

He wants to be happy about it, instead of terrified.

"I don't know what to do," he mouths at the ceiling, the same way he's prayed since he was five, eyes wide open and hand to his heart. "Please."

Mark drifts off sometime before sunrise, staring at Johnny's profile, still waiting for any kind of absolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm midway through chapter four atm, and I'm preemptively sorry for what I've done, lmao. HOPE EVERYONE ENJOYED!!!!
> 
> Feel free to pester me on twitter [@sneakethsnek](https://twitter.com/sneakethsnek).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those whom the portrayal of being closeted (and not being super great at coping with it) because of a religious/conservative family might be ouch, this chapter is most of the worst of it (though there will be some in the final chapter as well). Big hugs.
> 
> As always, huge thanks to my betas Tay and Mon, who answer my impossible queries and field my ridiculous jokes and also rambling tl;dr about narrative. <3
> 
> Only one more chapter to go!!!!

Mark wakes up to Johnny's iPhone alarm and lets Johnny hustle him out of bed in a fugue state. He got so little sleep that everything drifts over him without leaving any sort of impact. He digs out some clothes from his suitcase, watches Johnny carry the bundle of the stained bedspread downstairs to wash it, and wanders off to shower feeling like he's moving through sludge. There's a tiny prickle of stubble above his lip, but of course he forgot his razor. His reflection stares back at him, hair drying limp, and his glasses almost conceal his dark circles.

Reality starts jabbing him once he's dressed and downstairs, smelling a Western breakfast cooking in the kitchen. Johnny isn't downstairs yet, and Mark almost turns on his heel and tries to creep back to his room rather than face this alone. He still isn't convinced that the Suhs couldn't hear his orgasm noises from across the house. He isn't convinced he's capable of human communication like this, wrecked from a night turning his thoughts over. But she must have Mom Senses, because she catches Mark peeking around the entryway to the kitchen and smiles.

"Mark, good morning. Did you sleep okay? I flipped the mattress a few days ago, but we should probably get around to replacing it."

"I slept great," he lies, coming into the kitchen. "Do you need any help? That smells really good."

"Go sit down, don't worry about me." She does look like she's got everything under control, apron on and every burner on the stove occupied. She manages to glance over her shoulder at Mark to make sure he settles at the kitchen table. "There's juice in the fridge, and water, and Johnny will make coffee and complain about our coffee maker when he's downstairs."

Having seen the fanfare of Johnny's French press ritual, Mark snickers. "I'll grab some juice in a minute, thank you. Are you excited for the wedding?"

"I'll be excited when Grace stops changing her mind about the place settings," she says, but it sounds fond. "Mark, can you get me some more butter from the fridge?" She's whisking something on the stovetop nonstop, and Mark pops out of his chair and bolts to the fridge, eager to help.

"Sure, you just want like a stick?" He's still not quite used to the size of butter sticks in the U.S., but he finds them in the fridge fine.

It turns out she needs a tablespoon's worth, and Mark is halfway through digging through the cutlery drawer for a spoon that looks the right size before she, clearly trying not to laugh, explains he can use a knife and the guideline measurements printed on the wrapper.

"You learn something new every day," Mark says, and drops the tab of butter into her pot as instructed. This is the closest he's been to her since he arrived, and it's hard not to stare at her profile, the slope of her nose so like Johnny's. He ends up leaning on the counter, fetching her clean utensils and tasting the concoction she's still stirring, which turns out to be gravy to match biscuits baking in the oven. "It's good," he says around an almost-burned tongue, but it was, rich and peppery and not something he eats a lot of. "You're a great cook."

She thanks him distractedly as she adjusts the burner's temperature. "Why don't you pour us some juice? It's too hot in here."

Mark's already getting them glasses, and he almost drops one when Johnny says, out of nowhere, "That's because you keep the A/C at 80, Mom. It's like a sauna in here sometimes."

They bicker good-naturedly about the economy of using the aircon, Johnny loudly proclaiming that 72 is a sweet-spot temperature, as Mark fills two cups with ice from the dispenser, spacing out as he stares at the fridge. There's a little whiteboard with a half-erased grocery list and the date of the last time rice was made, and a few magnets holding up flyers, photos, a lone Garfield comic strip, and one of those custom photo cards with "Merry Christmas from the Kims 2017" on it. 

One of the pictures catches Mark's eye, mostly because he spots a rainbow. A Pride flag. Johnny's flanked by his parents somewhere outside, arms slung over their shoulders, a muscle tank on and a sticker on his cheek in pan colors. His mom wears a visor and sunglasses and a wide smile, and she's holding a miniature rainbow flag. His dad is wearing a Cubs hat and a necklace of colorful beads likely thrown from a float and just looks bemused.

He stares so long the ice almost overflows. Mark catches himself before he curses and hopes no one notices him transferring some of the excess ice into the other cup.

He's not that lucky, because the kitchen falls silent until Johnny's mom asks, "Did you go to Pride this year, Mark?" in a pleasant, neutral voice, like she's inquiring about the weather.

Mark keeps his gaze focused on the juice he pulls from the fridge, on the cups lined up on the counter. His hands don't shake when he starts pouring, which is a miracle. "Yeah. I'm usually back in Canada by the time Pride rolls around here, so it was fun to go for once." Even getting that out feels like scraping his throat, the tacit admission that he's the sort of person who goes to Pride.

"You should have told me you hadn't been to Chicago Pride," Johnny says. "We could have shown you around, avoided some of the corporate crap."

 _We_. Johnny went to Pride with his parents, and Mark went—to his very first—with a few people from the LGBT student club. He got a weird farmer's tan, a lot of free condoms, and a few numbers shoved into his shorts for his trouble. There are no pictures of it on his phone, nothing to put on his minifridge; he's probably a face in the background in a hundred strangers' photos, but he couldn't even make himself pose for a group selfie with the club in case they put it on the university's Facebook or something. 

"I wouldn't want to interrupt, like, a family thing." Mark's throat is rapidly closing, so he sips his orange juice and sets the other cup close to Johnny's mom.

"Ah, we were only there for an hour or two, to beat traffic," she says. "We marched a little, got lunch. It was fun." 

He knows he needs to stop drawing out putting the orange juice away, then straightening a crooked picture on the fridge, but he has no idea what his face is doing. Johnny told him he was out, and Mark believed him, but the picture proof of the Suhs embracing their son at a Pride parade makes it real for him—inasmuch as the concept can feel real. Johnny's Korean-American mother held a rainbow flag and smiled and put the proof of her son's queerness on her fridge.

Mark gulps the juice fast, until he's breathless, and fixes the most normal expression he can onto his face before turning around. 

"Maybe next year," Mark says, like a liar, and Johnny smiles at him, hair wet from his shower and looking impossibly refreshed. 

"I'd like that."

"I think it's all done," Johnny's mom announces, thwacking a wooden spoon against the side of the gravy pan. "Johnny, go get your father. Mark, can you help me set the table?"

"Absolutely."

If he spends way more time than necessary with his head ducked scrutinizing the table, making sure the forks and knives are all perfectly straight, Johnny's mom doesn't seem to mind.

\---

An hour or so after they've demolished breakfast, the doorbell rings.

Grace, Mark discovers, is five-foot-nothing and adorned with Disney Princess hair reaching halfway down her back that ends in what Mark's sister calls "beach waves." Her mother (possibly Johnny's mom's sister? Mark isn't clear on how the family tree actually branches here) is like her somewhat more severe clone—no curls, shorter hair, but the same button nose, round face, pointy chin, and tiny frame. Even their glasses look similar, although Grace's are more stylish.

It's an entourage of auntie energy in the dining room, now cleared of all breakfast and piled with paperwork and odds and ends that Mark guesses go into wedding planning. Mark smiles to himself as he watches Grace shriek upon seeing Johnny, pop up onto her toes, and throw herself at her cousin.

"John," she says, arms wrapped tight around his neck, and he laughs and rocks her back and forth. "It's been forever."

"It's been since Christmas," he corrects, pulling back to, of all things, flick her forehead. "I can't believe you tricked someone into marrying you, you little monster." 

"I can't believe you got duped into working for free, loser," she says, smiling so bright the apples of her cheeks push her glasses up. "You better not make me look ugly."

"Eh, I can only do so much with the tools I've got. Maybe I can try that old Vaseline over the lens trick, really blur you out."

The third lady who arrived at the Suhs' doorstep a few moments ago, who Mark has no context for at all but assumes is another auntie, pulls away from her conversation with Johnny's mom to whack him in the back. He hisses dramatically, enduring Grace's laughter—and he's holding her hand, swinging it like a little kid, Mark notes—and mutters an apology.

"Come sit down and show me what you want, weirdo. And come meet Mark."

All three heads turn to Mark, who is sitting at the dining table alone, and he raises a hand in greeting. Someone actually gasps, like it's a shock he's sitting there, even though Johnny's mom assured him they already know he's along for the ride. 

"Oh my gosh." Grace drops Johnny's hand to raise both of hers to her face in tight fists. "He's so _cute_." She walks forward, taking a seat near him but not immediately next to him, and he's starting to think the Suhs are all gifted at birth with excellent bone structure and an uncanny ability to hold eye contact. "Mark, hi, I know I said Johnny's shooting some stuff for free and you're supposed to help him, but you get first dibs on whatever duplicate kitchen appliances we're gifted, okay?"

"I don't really know that I need a toaster. Maybe just seconds of cake?"

Grace extends her arm and sticks out her pinky, grinning. "Deal." They lock fingers, and a few other people settle into seats at the table, too. "Oh, and since you're new and unbiased, can you do me a favor?"

Mark cocks his head and hopes he doesn't look like a bird. Johnny's mom sets a cup of iced tea in front of him and pats his shoulder. "I can try?"

"Tell me honestly, Mark… Would you fall asleep during a two-hour ceremony? In two languages?"

Mark darts his gaze over Grace's shoulder to see the women peering at him with narrowed eyes. He isn't kidding himself that he'll be the deciding factor of what happens at Grace's wedding, which is probably set in stone except for small, fiddly stuff, but he also kind of hears the _Jaws_ theme in his head, with the weight of those expectant stares on him. "Uhh. No?" he says. Grace sighs dramatically and literally faceplants onto the table, like she's giving up her will to live, and he hurries to follow up with, "But it might be hard for some people to sit still that long. Like, for health reasons. And little kids might lose it."

She pops back up, a strand of hair caught in her lip gloss. " _Thank_ you. Mom, you better tell him I refuse to go over an hour upon pain of death."

Grace's mom pecks at something on her phone screen and gives a long-suffering sigh. "Fine," she says. "I'll tell him."

"You're still doing a fusion thing, yeah?" Johnny asks, sitting down with his iPad in the seat between Mark and Grace.

"Yeah, it's not very traditional. We're doing the pyebaek during the cocktail hour, and a modified kunbere ceremony during the vows, but overall, it's pretty American."

"Do you want me to take shots of the pyebaek or do you want me outside with the guests?" Johnny asks, and Mark sits back to watch him work. It's not the same as when he's lecturing, or answering questions, or even going over one of Mark's assignments during office hours, though the intensity is similar.

"If you feel comfortable doing it, that'd be great. We can send the photographer—I mean, the guy we're paying, not you, my favorite cousin—to get some shots of people getting their drink on."

"If you want me in there, I'm there," Johnny says firmly. "Gracie, seriously, I'm happy to help. It's your special day."

Grace curls her small hand over his and gives him a meaningful look. It's immediately ruined by Johnny cracking a joke about giving her an empty white envelope, but the atmosphere is sweet, excited, and Mark even chimes in to vote on table decorations, of which he disclaims himself utterly clueless.

It's clear that Mark's not really needed. He appreciates Grace making efforts to include him even when he's just some guy who's going to show up and eat wedding food and help Johnny carry around… lenses? Lighting equipment? He's not sure what the gig entails. Probably he should ask.

Eventually, after thirty minutes or so of planning and family bickering and with no signs of it stopping soon, Johnny's mom leans over to him. "If you're bored, you could hop in the pool."

"Oh, thanks, Mrs. Suh, but I'm good. I'd just burn," he mutters back, mindful of Johnny explaining focal lengths to Grace and showing her examples of shots on his iPad. "This is interesting."

She gives him a Look but lets that go. Mark notices she still seems thoughtful, though, and isn't surprised when she leans in again. "We have a piano in the living room, if you want to practice."

Surprisingly, that sounds good. He's still tired and on edge from bad sleep and incessant thoughts, but messing around with music can center him like almost nothing else. "You don't mind?"

"Please, you'll be doing me a favor."

Mark pushes back from the table, waving off Johnny's inquisitive look. "Any requests?" he asks Johnny's mom, and she just shrugs and says, "Surprise me."

The piano is located in a little recessed area that serves as a formal-ish sitting room, not too far from the kitchen. There's a framed photo of Johnny at his high school graduation on the wall, and a booklet of hymns displayed atop the music rack. Mark runs his hand along the closed lid, unsurprised that he collects no dust on his fingers despite the claim that Johnny never uses it. He sits at the bench and draws up the lid. A lot of the time, he plays on keyboards, and he gets a certain amount of practice on campus pianos, but it's been a while since he's sat at a comfortable piano with no stakes, only the intention to have fun.

He tinkles through a scale to warm up, then laughs to himself and bangs out a measure of the _Bridal Chorus_ , that ubiquitous _dun-dun-dun-dun_ , and he hears Grace cackle from the kitchen.

Very aware that they're still working on wedding stuff and don't need him making a ruckus, Mark picks _How Deep Is Your Love_ even though he's half afraid he's forgotten some of it. Whatever; he's better at improvising than memorizing anyway. His fingers feel fumbly, like he needs to stretch them, but by the end of the song, it's more under his control. 

Mark hasn't spent the last two years of his life busking to find himself unsure of his repertoire; sure, he's usually on his guitar, but he's a competent pianist with a few tricks up his sleeve. He settles on a Sinatra standard that he jazzes up beyond its usual jazz. The piano isn't out of tune, and he's not _too_ rusty, with all the extra sessions he's put in for his master class, and it's nice to lose himself in it, body swaying with the rhythm, with the force of his hands against the keys.

The third song is just him fucking around with a piano arrangement of _I'm Yours_ on the fly. He gets through the bridge of that before he feels someone—Johnny, he realizes without even needing to glance up—sit next to him on the bench. He's just been playing the instrumental, not singing, but Johnny's quick to jump in with vocals. His voice is a little creaky, but the tone is nice; Mark stops doing anything too fancy and tries to keep Johnny on track with the song. He finds himself humming a little bit, harmonizing on the chorus, peeking up at Johnny from the corner of his eye and smiling at the way Johnny's reading the lyrics off his phone.

Johnny's thigh is pressed all along the length of his, and Mark should find that more distracting than he does.

He finishes with a flourish, finally turning to face Johnny as head-on as he can on the same bench, and finds his breath trapped in his chest at the look in Johnny's eye.

"You're really good," Johnny murmurs.

"I'm okay." Mark glances down and slides the side of his thumb over G-sharp, careful not to push too hard and unleash the note. "I'm not exactly the next Jason Mraz."

"No, you're Mark Lee," Johnny says.

Mark flushes so hard he can feel his ears burning. He's still staring down at the black and white keys, and that's why the press of Johnny's mouth to his temple, slow and sweet, shocks him to his bones and accelerates his heartbeat in an instant. The hand at his waist barely registers, compared to the kiss.

"You're very talented, Mark," Grace says, sounding like she's right behind them.

Mark whips around on the bench to see Grace and Johnny's mom standing maybe ten feet back. Neither of them look disturbed or uncomfortable; both are smiling, like it's totally fine that Johnny just kissed him. It wasn't on the mouth, but it didn't have to be. It was obvious.

"I feel like I should tell the DJ we've got cocktail hour covered and just let you loose on a piano," she continues.

"Gracie," Johnny says warningly.

"Kidding," she says, hands shooting up in surrender so swiftly, the skirt of her dress flutters. "I'm not going to monopolize Mark."

If Mark was blushing before, now he feels like all of his blood has drained from his face and extremities in a hurry, leaving him suddenly dizzy. "Just a sec," he mumbles, getting up from the bench with a hand to the piano for balance, ringing out discordant notes. "I have to use your bathroom."

He thinks he would have knocked the bench over in his haste to escape if Johnny hadn't been sitting on it. He thinks he must be humiliating himself, scurrying out of the sitting room beyond Grace and Johnny's mom like something's hot on his heels, wandering the house as his vision narrows and his lungs squeeze tight within the confines of his chest.

\---

So he has a panic attack in the Suhs' downstairs bathroom, with the lights off. Or at least he thinks he does. Mark's an expert on his own bullshit, but not necessarily on whatever this is—the culmination of his bullshit. Peak bullshit. He definitely feels _panicked_ , curled up in a ball in the dark room, trying to breathe.

He notices he's leaking tears, which is disturbing, but his priority is not asphyxiating and not making any sounds. The bathroom fan covers for some of it. He's glad he had the foresight to switch that on before collapsing.

Half of Mark is on the verge of what feels like an implosion, his heartbeat loud and too fast in his ears, his thoughts pinwheeling into nonsense. The other half of Mark is aware of how stupid he'll feel once his body gets under control. Like, he's on the bathroom floor. Gross _and_ pathetic. And what if someone walks by and notices the bathroom is in use but the light isn't on? 

Control is won back in stages. Eventually, he's able to inhale and exhale with some kind of intention, even if it's shaky. Then he uncurls from his sad little shrimp position, and he feels less like he might start screaming—honestly, it's more that his body doesn't feel like it has the energy to scream. His brain is still whirring like a laptop about to overheat, but at least he's not simultaneously inside of it freaking out and outside of it observing the whole thing like a scientist anymore.

Mark gets to his knees, then uses the sink to pull himself up. Still in the dark, he turns on the water and leans down to gulp it, gasping at how cold it feels. Once he feels like he's had his fill, he splashes his face. Then he sits on the closed toilet lid and tries to shuffle his racing thoughts into some sort of order.

Johnny is out to his family, and it's fine. Mark had a meltdown for literally no reason. What, he's trembling because Johnny's family might realize Mark is gay, too? That Johnny and he aren't strictly platonic friends? What does it matter if Johnny's family knows any of that, if they're happy to go to Pride and hug their son and welcome Mark with open arms even if he's a stranger to them?

He can't keep fooling himself. He's dripping water onto the Suhs' bathroom floor from his sodden face, sitting on the closed toilet, because he can't keep this up. 

Mark's good at avoiding his problems. He went all the way to Chicago from Vancouver to avoid them, and now he's avoiding them in the Suhs' bathroom, too. He's avoided more than short responses to his mom's texts for the last few weeks. He's avoided thinking about how much it sucks that one of his two best friends left him behind to go back to China, and how he's not sure it's even worth trying to replace him or if that's possible. 

He's avoided thinking about what it means that Johnny invites him over on the regular to do more than fuck him. He's avoided asking what it means that he's fine with Johnny touching him when he shrinks back from others. Avoided asking why he showed up at Johnny's family's house under objectively strange pretenses. 

He's avoided thinking about what it means that he won't let anyone tag him in Facebook photos for fear of what it might inadvertently reveal to people back home. That his Instagram is locked and under a fake name, and how it's mostly populated with pictures of sunsets because he can't risk disclosing even in secrecy. That he's tried a hundred times to bring it up as a hypothetical to his parents, just to see what they'd do. That he's never been able to go through with it.

Fuck, he's even avoided the reality that he's finishing his degree in the next few months, and that he has no clue what he's going to do once he's done. 

What he can't avoid is that, if he stays in here much longer, people are going to come knocking. Johnny's mom might think she poisoned him with her food.

Mark pulls his leaden body off the toilet and wipes his face on the hand towel he struggled to find in the dark. 

Sure enough, as he's scrubbing away the remnants of tears and water, there's a soft knock on the door.

"Mark, are you all right?" It's Johnny's mom, voice as tentative as the knock.

He knew it was coming; he knew he couldn't stay in the bathroom all day, but his blood turns to ice in his veins when he hears her, and it takes him a moment to remember how to put words together. "Yeah. Just a headache." 

There's a lengthy pause, and Mark hurries to finish drying himself off. Determinedly not thinking about what he must look like, he yanks the door open in time to see Johnny's mom look startled, then worried, and then her expression smooths over into something kindly neutral. "Do you need some aspirin?" She reaches out to press the back of her hand to Mark's forehead. "You feel a little clammy."

"It couldn't hurt," he says. He sounds close to normal, which is funny, because his legs still feel wobbly and there's a lingering ache in his chest, but hey. At least he's not crying! 

"Go sit down in the living room. My husband won't bother you; he's probably asleep anyway. I'll go get you some tea and medicine."

He nods. Not like he has anything else going on. It's a relief to have someone tell him what to do, frankly. He turns to head in the direction of the living room, which is located at the opposite end of the house from the sitting room, but stops when Johnny's mom speaks again.

"Mark, you're welcome in my house. I don't say what I don't mean."

He nods again, filing that away as yet another thing he's going to avoid analyzing. Why start now? 

\---

Through some sort of maternal magic, Johnny's mom keeps everyone in the other room for a good hour, while Mark nurses a cup of hot tea and downs the generic little white pills she brings him because it certainly can't hurt. True to her prediction, Johnny's dad is out cold in a nap, though he wakes up, notices Mark, and asks if he wants to do a crossword puzzle. Mark declines, and they sit in peaceful silence. 

As he listens to the scritch of pen over paper, Mark lets himself just be tired and overwhelmed, head lolling against the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling. He lets himself not fixate on the fact that everyone else in the other room is very aware that he was acting weird as hell.

He gets the opportunity to feel guilty about something else entirely when his mom texts him to ask how his weekend is going, if he's eating well. He didn't even tell her he was going out of town. He hasn't told her much at all, lately. 

He was so sure when he landed in Chicago for the first time that he could keep part of his life cordoned off from her—from his family and friends back in Canada—but the last two years have proven to be nothing but a slow-motion disconnect. He sends emojis to the family group chat, calls his mom when she actively starts to sound worried in her voice messages, and feels a surge of guilt every time she deposits money into his account, her way of showing that she loves him even if he's distant. 

Mark could have gone home this summer. There was no reason he needed to fuck over his budget and plans by staying in Chicago for the summer session; he could have finished in winter semester or whatever. He just… didn't want to leave. Didn't want to spend months in the cognitive dissonance of the old Mark Lee. Didn't want to have to pretend. 

But there's nothing he can do about that right now. (Or ever, the bitter little voice in his head that Mark pretends doesn't exist chimes.) He can work on being a better son—starting with texting her back, telling her he's hanging with a friend's family and they made kimchi-jjigae almost as good as hers and asking if she and Dad have gone to the lake yet—and maybe, eventually, confront the fact that his time in Chicago, in his separate gay life, is coming to an end soon. 

It's not for months yet, but he's going to pack his bags and return to Canada after graduation. He'll be leaving behind more than just Hyuck, and now Johnny and Ten and Jaehyun; he'll have to abandon his tenuous connection to the queer community here. To any community that isn't online, impersonal, not a danger to him getting found out. There's no way he can hook up with impunity in Vancouver, when so many people know him and his family and Mark being spotted on a date or coming out of a club could destroy his life.

He should be living it up, savoring the freedom he has here, not crying on the bathroom floor in someone else's house. Not making things weird for Johnny, who seems like he's operating in a whole different universe than Mark. Who doesn’t need to deal with Mark's baggage.

His mom texts back, excited that Mark got out of the city, and tells him not to forget to thank his hosts. He sends her a heart.

It isn't so hard to text her, not really. Even when it is hard, when Mark's belly turns sour with regret and shame and frustration from all he's holding back, she deserves the effort. She's his mom. 

He can't drag out his life in Chicago. He can't come out to his parents. He can't make Lucas move back, or make Hyuck follow him to Canada when it's time to leave. But he can text his mom more than once a week—or less, if he's being honest—and give her more than slivers of his life.

And he can ask Johnny what the fuck is going on, for real. Not now, in the Suhs' house, but soon.

Mark grabs his empty mug and makes his way to the kitchen.

\---

It's easy enough to slip back into the thick of company; Grace and Johnny are both peering at his iPad, bent heads close, while Grace's mom sets the table. Johnny's mom is scurrying all over the kitchen, plating banchan and cooking rice to go with the leftovers from the night before. 

"Can I help?" he asks, and Johnny's mom puts him in charge of checking on the kalbi in the oven, despite the fact that it's a terrible idea and Mark has managed to burn instant ramen before. Still, it's something to do.

Johnny gives him a questioning, worried look when Mark glances over at him, and Mark gives him a reassuring smile. Now that he's drained himself hyperventilating, there's an exhausted sort of calm enclosing him; it's nice to be able to let the conversation drift by, chiming in when he's asked to and not worrying about how he's coming off. He doesn't worry about what Grace and Johnny's mom saw and what they think about it. Or what it means that Johnny kissed him in the open like that, or even brought him here and thanked him so sweetly for fucking his brains out in his childhood bedroom. 

Here's hoping Mark's zen sustains itself until they're alone and that he doesn't crumble like one of those shitty pot brownies Lucas used to buy from their RA.

Johnny's mom declares everything ready when Mark tells her the meat is sizzling and popping, and Johnny's sent to retrieve his dad. The spread takes up half the kitchen table, and it's been extended to seat seven people. There's even Western side dishes among the banchan, and Mark giggles to himself as he serves himself some Kirkland Signature stuffed bell peppers alongside bean sprouts and like four types of kimchi.

After they say grace, Johnny shoots Mark a bunch of looks. Mark’s already started stuffing his face, finding himself hungry now that food is a thing his brain is capable of thinking about again. He pats Johnny's knee under the table and, when that doesn't seem to work, leans forward to get Grace's attention. _I am totally chill_ , Mark tries to telegraph. _Watch this shit._

"Where are you and your fiance planning to go on your honeymoon, if you don't mind my asking?" 

Grace lights up, telling Mark about how neither of them have been to Hawaii and how her fiance is hardcore into surfing and she's hardcore into drinking cocktails and reading under a beach umbrella. "Tourism is so not my thing, but I figure it's my honeymoon, I can be annoying and selfish once. I'll just tip super well to make up for it." 

"Oh," Mark says, biting back a terrifyingly wide grin, "but then you'll go back for your ten-year, and like, you'll buy a plastic hula skirt and have a great time at a luau, and then suddenly it's your regular vacation destination. Maybe you'll start taking _cruises_ to Hawaii. Just to maximize the experience."

He has a split second of wondering where _that_ came from, kind of astonished at himself for saying something that's technically mockery to a girl he barely knows in front of most of her family. He sees Johnny staring at him in his peripheral vision.

Thankfully, Grace shrieks and laughs, flapping a hand at Mark. "Mark, oh my God, thank you for voicing my literal worst nightmare."

"There's nothing wrong with cruises," Mark says innocently. "My grandparents take them every year. They like the shows."

Grace laughs harder, until food actually falls out of her open mouth, and that sets Mark off laughing, too. Even Johnny's dad, content to eat in silence unless someone directly addresses him, chuckles. Johnny's mom, sitting on Johnny's other side, is smiling but shaking her head.

"Mark, you laugh now," she says, "but someday it will be _you_ on the cruise ship, going for seconds at the breakfast buffet."

"I think it's basically inevitable that all humans end up at the cruise-ship breakfast buffet," he agrees. "It's like a rite of passage."

Johnny's mom tells everyone about her first cruise and how she lost her purse in Greece and her husband almost missed the boat scouring every place they went trying to locate it. Johnny talks about a wedding he photographed on one of those river cruises, and how a drunk guest tried to climb over the ship's railing and go swimming.

It's nice. It feels like home much the way all the time with the Suhs has felt like a weird inversion of his own life, but this time, it doesn't sting. Mark's too tired to keep up with quips and conversation, but his calm isn't rattled.

That lasts until Johnny makes noises about heading back soon to beat traffic. Then Mark remembers his plan is real and not something he can put off. Mark's revelation was about bettering himself and living life fully while he can, or whatever, so he needs to do this and not hide from it. 

Easier said than done. 

Grace and her family bail after lunch. Mark ignores the look on her face when he tells her he doesn't have a Facebook but that Johnny can text her his number. She's gone in a whirlwind of hair, fluttery skirt, and lingering perfume, promising Mark extra helpings of cake at the wedding. 

His heart rate steadily increases as he collects his bag from upstairs, accepts a giant Tupperware stuffed with food from Johnny's mom, and fields Johnny's dad's quiet questions about his piano master class. When Johnny hovers nearby, Johnny's dad ends up dragging him into a conversation about his plans for the next semester. It gives Mark a few moments with Johnny's mom to say goodbye and to thank her for being an excellent host and for letting him stay, which he would have totally done even without the parental reminder.

She gives Mark a searching look, one he can't quite figure out how to respond to, before leaning forward and wrapping him up in a quick but secure hug. "You're welcome any time. It was a pleasure having you." Those are words Mark has heard from a lot of parents growing up, but the seriousness of them and the weight in her gaze makes them land harder than they ever have before. She went out of her way to make him feel at home, and she saw Johnny kiss him in a way more than bro-y way, and she still went knocking on the bathroom door to make sure he was all right. 

Mark nods, chest feeling tight. "It was great. Really. I had a great time. I guess I can see where Johnny gets all of his kindness."

Internally, Mark groans over using that line—his brace-faced twelve-year-old self, full of hair gel and a burning desire to be liked by adults, wouldn't try something so cheesy, even if he meant it. But layers of his defenses are down, probably because he's still exhausted from a night of shitty sleep and his whole meltdown, and most of what's coming out is pure unedited Mark.

Johnny's mom looks delighted but contained about it. She flickers a glance at Johnny, then back at Mark, and smiles wider. "You take care of each other, okay? And you," she says, turning to her son, "make sure I get my Tupperware back."

"I'm not going to let anything bad happen to Mark _or_ your Tupperware, all right?" He scoops her in a giant hug, his arms around her so careful, nose in her hair. "I love you and I'll be back soon, okay?" His eyes are tightly shut. 

Mark thinks of the last time he hugged his mom, getting rained on at the airport drop-off and trying to shut out the crowd noise to say goodbye, his mother pretending she wasn't crying as she clutched him.

He turns and heads into the garage, ostensibly to give them privacy, but mostly so no one sees his face.

\---

The drive back to the city is fine, in that nothing happens but Johnny listening to music and muttering at bad drivers while Mark nurtures a growing sense of unease. At some point, Johnny must notice that Mark's a dark rain cloud ready to pour all over his seat. He casts Mark little looks from his peripheral, and eventually, when the skyline of downtown Chicago is within view, asks if he wants to stop for Starbucks before he takes him home.

Mark originally planned to invite Johnny up to his dorm room to talk, but ripping the bandaid off sooner rather than later seems like the best choice. He doesn't think Johnny is the type to leave him and his luggage outside of a Starbucks, regardless of what Mark says or does. "Yeah, but can we not go inside? I'm not really… up to people."

"Sure," Johnny says carefully.

He pulls off the interstate before they're downtown proper, still a bit of a trip to campus, and somehow finds a Starbucks within three minutes without the aid of GPS like he's got some sort of coffee radar as a sixth sense. Mark asks for something decaf and dairy-free, and Johnny gets a full-caf drip coffee like someone who wants to be up all night or maybe someone so used to caffeine that he laughs in the face of it now, and Mark feels a rush of fondness for him. God, he really likes Johnny. He doesn't know what's going on, but he likes Johnny so much and hopes he comes out of this evening still sure of that, at least. 

"So," Johnny says, driving away from the drive-through window as Mark gulps his fruity drink, sweet and bright across his tongue. "Should I park?"

"Yeah," Mark croaks.

He does, but he leaves the car running. There's a giant SUV to their right, blocking out some of the harsh afternoon sun. Mark stares straight through the windshield, and all his calm, his exhausted zen, has fully abandoned him. He feels like he might vibrate so hard he'll rise out of the seat and bang his head against the car roof. Still, there's no going back from this, no way to take back the weirdness of the afternoon. He needs to speak now, in person, when things are fresh and he can't run from it. Or he will run from it.

Johnny turns down the music until it's a muffled presence they can ignore. "I want to apologize," he says slowly, and Mark can see him fidgeting in his peripheral vision. "I made you uncomfortable—"

This is not the way he wants this to go down, with Johnny already hanging his head low. "Okay, no, that's not… what this is about."

"Sure," Johnny says, sounding dubious, which twists Mark's stomach some, like he's being condescended to, but then he sighs, shoulders slumping. "Even if it isn't, I still want to apologize for crossing a boundary and kissing you in the open. I knew you weren't okay with it, after how scared you were that someone might see us in the pool." He shifts in his seat and turns serious, soft eyes on Mark. "I thought everyone was still in the kitchen, I swear. It wasn't intentional. But my family isn't going to care about something like that, you know? They like you a lot."

"I like your family a lot, too, dude. They're really nice. And I mean, it was cool to see you have that sort of relationship with them. But…" Mark rattles his drink, trying to figure out how to articulate what's been bugging him for nearly a day. Since Johnny curled up on his chest and called him _baby_ and it felt like more than afterglow, more than sex.

"But you don't have that sort of relationship with your own family?" Johnny asks, calm and low.

"No," Mark snaps, then bites his lip so nothing else comes out like the lash of a whip. Johnny's probably trying to help by filling in the gaps of Mark's fumbling and silences, but he keeps getting it wrong. It's not all about the difference between Mark's family and Johnny's family; it's about Mark and Johnny. "No, I don't. But that's not— Listen, you know I'm Canadian, right?"

"Right," Johnny echoes.

"Right. So, when I'm done with my degree, I'm going back. Do you, like, get what that means?"

Johnny works that one over, gaze shifting to the side and then back to Mark, eyes narrowing as if he's trying to read messy handwriting. Like Mark's inscrutable. "That you still can't come out to your family?"

"Oh my God, it isn't all about my family," he says in a rush, voice lilting upward embarrassingly. He's lucky it didn't crack. "Like, sure, yeah, a lot of it is that I can't come out. It sucks. I came to Chicago for school just to see what it's like to be gay in public, what a fun thing for me." He drags in a deep breath and follows that up with a huge gulp of his drink. "But like, the whole point of this awkward fucking conversation is, how did we get from hooking up at a party to me meeting your parents, man?"

That sits between them like a third passenger in the car, too loud and demanding. Mark doesn't regret it, though; instead, he's beset with relief. Asking the question that's been a blazing neon sign of obviousness, the question he should have asked about ages ago, leaves Mark feeling weightless. And it turns out there's more questions lurking inside of him, having hunkered down and waited for the chance to escape.

"What are we _doing_ , Johnny? We hang out and we hook up, and I really like it, I really like _you_ , don't get it twisted—but how did that lead to me being up your plus-one to a wedding? Like, that's stuff reserved for a real relationship, not some guy you're fucking around with."

Johnny's silence is loaded, though it doesn't last very long. "I asked you out the morning after we hooked up, dude. I told you I had a thing for you. We've gone on tons of dates. How is that—" Johnny shakes his head and flicks the A/C vent toward himself in a quick, angry motion. "I'm sorry, you asked what we're doing," he says, tight but far more measured than a few seconds prior. 

Mark hasn't seen this rigid self-control from Johnny before, but it doesn't surprise him. So much of Johnny's energy is channeled into being seen as chill, being unfazed and rolling with whatever's thrown at him, and no one would describe either of them desperately gripping their drinks and refusing to look at each other as _unfazed_. 

"I guess I should make it obvious," Johnny starts again. "I didn't want to dump it on you because I thought you're shy and clearly going through it, but I want a _real relationship_. I was going to ask this weekend, but shit got in the way."

Mark tries to process that, and he stalls out before he can grapple with the enormity of it or the rapid sinking sensation in his chest and stomach. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Is it really that much of a surprise?" Johnny asks with a tired laugh. "I've been making excuses to see you since June, I made Sehun invite you to the party for a shot at just _talking_ to you, I can't get enough of you, and it's breaking news that I want a relationship?"

"I mean, yeah," Mark says in a small, crushed voice. He feels like an idiot. He feels really, really, spectacularly dumb, and it should be more profound than it is, having misread the situation to this degree, but also. Johnny hasn't been that subtle; Mark's just been too busy with his own crap to consider that maybe they wanted different things. It's not a nice feeling to realize just how off-track he's been, and it feels even worse knowing how much he's going to let Johnny down. "It's a surprise to me because, like, I thought we were just…" He shrugs one shoulder uselessly. "Friends with benefits? Like, we never talked about it."

"Friends with benefits. Right." Johnny sits in utter stillness; Mark even turns to look at him, spiking his heart rate to see what kind of an expression he has, but his face is locked down like a tomb. Mark did that, and it's not something he can fix or take back. "Every time I say anything that so much as hints at how much I like you, you look like you're trying to escape a burning building. Sorry for trying to take it slow, I guess."

That doesn't feel fair even if Mark recognizes it's sort of true. "Then why did you… Johnny, I'm not trying to— You're so fucking great, anyone would be lucky to have you as their boyfriend, but that's just not me, dude. I can't give you that."

"Because you're closeted?" Johnny asks in a tone of disbelief.

"Because I'm closeted, sure, yeah, but also because I'm leaving in a few months. You said you knew that."

"I do know that you're going back to Canada eventually. I just didn't realize that it meant no relationships ever. Because you never said that a relationship was off the table."

"You never said it was _on_ the table," Mark says. "This is legit the first time I'm hearing about it. And I'm sorry, for real, that we didn't talk about it, because I never meant to, like… make you think otherwise."

"Well, to be fair, you didn't," Johnny says, clipped. Mark anxiously stares at his profile, the same profile he's seen probably a dozen times in this position from the passenger seat. He's usually so relaxed and handsome, half-smiling. This is the most alien Johnny has looked to him. It dawns on Mark that this is the most he's known Johnny, full stop. Looking back on everything before this feels like it happened in a dream, hazy around the edges. This tense silence, the barely masked pain on Johnny's face, is wide awake. "I think I should take you home and we should talk about this when it's not. Immediate."

"Okay," Mark agrees. God knows what else might come out if they sit here like this much longer. 

Maybe it wasn't the best idea to have this conversation when Mark's half-human with exhaustion, but at least it's done. At least their cards are on the table. Now Mark just has to figure out how to shuffle them back into place. If that's even possible.

\---

Johnny idles in Mark's dorm parking lot and, true to his strangely chivalrous form, gets out and unloads Mark's bag for him. Mark kind of wants to throw himself to the concrete in apology, but he's aware of what a bad idea that is and how much he'd regret it. Instead, they stand like four feet apart, Mark waffling, adjusting the strap of his duffle over his shoulder to buy time. He got the answers he was looking for, mostly. It would be selfish to push when Johnny said they should stop for now, especially when Mark knows it's for the best. 

"Thanks for the ride," he says softly. "And the weekend. Your family really is great."

"It was no problem." Johnny's notably stiff, his hands digging wells in his shorts pockets. "We'll talk soon, all right?"

"I'll text you tomorrow," Mark promises, and watches Johnny's gaze get squirrely, shifting to Mark's shoes. "I want to figure this out, you know?"

Johnny nods, head still low, but manages to meet Mark's eyes and give him a tight smile. His hand rests on the top of his open door. "I know, Mark. I do, too." Then he's climbing into the car and closing the door with a muffled thud, and he doesn't look in Mark's direction as he puts the car in reverse.

\---

Mark falls asleep basically the minute his head hits the pillow, after half-assedly putting things away—including cramming the Tupperware of food into his already very full mini fridge. He manages to send Lucas a text to let him know he's home. When he wakes up at four a.m., dehydrated and with a strange hollow feeling in his chest, he sees that Lucas tried to video call him like three times.

 **Lucas:** Where are uuuuuuuuuu  
**Lucas:** ???????????  
**Lucas:** Can't believe u abandoned baby lucas 😢

Mark musters a snort and sends back an apology for falling asleep ("bruh I was wrecked srry"). He sees he has unread text messages, and the only person who texts him regularly is Johnny; everyone else pretty much sticks to WhatsApp. The gloomy feeling he woke up with is intensifying. It's still dark out, but Mark yanks his comforter over his head as he opens his texts. It's stupid that it makes him feel better to feel so cut off, but it does. 

**Johnny:** Hey, I'm sorry things got so weird. I just have a lot of questions. Hope that's all right.

The timestamp of the next message is a half hour later, probably when Mark was dreaming about his advisor changing the piano piece he's supposed to be nailing down a day before an evaluation. 

**Johnny:** Get back to me when you can, I guess.  
**Johnny:** Have you ever had a boyfriend or seriously dated anyone?

There's another gap of almost an hour. Mark's chewing his lip raw, squinting to see the screen because he couldn't make himself put his glasses on, hearing his own breathing in the confined space under his comforter. His stomach churns.

 **Johnny:** Are you just planning on staying single forever?

Fifteen minutes after that:

 **Johnny:** Okay

No way in hell is Johnny still awake to read Mark's responses, so he shouldn't fumble his phone in his haste to reply, but the guilt of sleeping through Lucas' video calls and Johnny's legit questions—and what Mark's silence probably seemed like—has him doing it anyway. A part of Mark is annoyed Johnny didn't just wait until the next day, like Mark thought they would. He even said he'd text Johnny tomorrow.

 **Mark:** Omg i fully passed out when i got home im sorry im just seeing this now  
**Mark:** I wouldnt ignore u and yeah ofc u can ask questions  
**Mark:** No i havent dated for real or had a boyfriend  
**Mark:** Idk how much i actually managed to get across haha i was kinda out of it  
**Mark:** But my life in america is way different from canada  
**Mark:** Im p sure its obvious i dont have  
**Mark:** Tons of experience

He hears Hyuck in the back of his mind reminding him that multi-texting is annoying and that he should calm down and think things out before he types, and looking at the disaster he's just unleashed is proof of that. 

Mark is trying to figure out how he feels about Johnny's comment about staying single forever when Johnny responds, and it's like being stabbed with an ice pick right through the gut. Johnny seeing what he said and being able to respond to it before Mark's had a chance to fully process sucks.

 **Johnny:** Did you really never think I might want to date you for real?

 **Mark:** In hindsight ya it makes more sense but tbh  
**Mark:** No???  
**Mark:** Like i was pretty sure u like me, youre super nice  
**Mark:** Haha im still kinda like 😳 at the idea  
**Mark:** But nah i thought it was just chill thing like a buddy hookup  
**Mark:** Im sorry

 **Johnny:** Fuck, Mark

 **Mark:** IT really isnt u tho!!! like clearly this is my thing  
**Mark:** U r really hot and funny and nice its not a you-problem  
**Mark:** Just a mark lee issue

 **Johnny:** Just as a word of advice for the future, please tell people you're only into casual up front

 **Mark:** okay

Johnny doesn't type anything else, and Mark stares at his blurry phone screen with an awful panging inside of him, an irritation he feels guilty about chasing its heels. 

**Mark:** Like at the same time u never said anything about wanting to not be casual???  
**Mark:** I know u asked me out and stuff but you never said anything about idk  
**Mark:** Being serious, being exclusive, anything romantic  
**Mark:** Idk it's on me for sure for not telling u but at the same time u never said anything either

 **Johnny:** I didn't realize I needed to make you a PowerPoint presentation  
**Johnny:** Sorry, that was mean  
**Johnny:** You're right

 **Mark:** I get it  
**Mark:** I think both of us are tired rn  
**Mark:** Maybe we should wait a little while and talk again later

Even if Johnny doesn't want to keep hooking up, which seems like a given, Mark aches at the idea of them drifting back into their own social circles like nothing ever happened. He thought at least they became friends during all those long hours together, eating lunch and chilling and laughing at the way Ten yelled _gay culture_ every five minutes during their _Avatar_ watch. That assumption was the mantle holding up his friends-with-benefits delusion in the first place. Mark wants to be friends with Johnny. He has since the first stupid dad joke Johnny made on day one of his class, when Mark laughed too hard and drew Johnny's curious gaze. He types and deletes a few pathetic attempts at saying as much, but he'll make himself a hypocrite for continuing the conversation when he just said they should wait. Again.

 **Johnny:** I think it's clear we are on very different wavelengths  
**Johnny:** I don't think dragging this out to tomorrow or the day after is going to make either of us change that

Mark curses, voice sounding thick, in his horrible little cocoon. He rips the comforter away and breathes in the cooler air of his dorm room, feeling exposed yet somehow very, very alone. The empty shape of Lucas' old bed stares at him in the dim.

 **Johnny:** Not that it matters at this point, but I was falling for you, Mark.

All he can manage is:

 **Mark:** Im really sorry

Johnny doesn't reply. 

\--- 

Mark goes through Monday and Tuesday in a surreal daze of wandering to class and being filled with such enormous brain static and background anxiety that he doesn't retain a single thing. He shows up late to studio time he booked three months ago and wastes it utterly, lies awake until three a.m. watching van life and tiny house videos on YouTube to distract himself, and ultimately finds himself at Hyuck's dorm Tuesday evening. 

He has nowhere else to go. He has no one who knows him better. And he's aware he's needed to talk to Hyuck for a while, that he was deliberately keeping him at arm's length to spare himself Hyuck's loud and annoying logic. Even Lucas, who finally got his video call and was thoroughly unconvinced by Mark's attempt at being a normal person, told Mark to talk to Hyuck.

Jaemin, Hyuck's roommate, answers the door, smile wide and delighted when he sees it's Mark, but that shifts to a furrowed eyebrow and pursed lips once he gets a good look at him: broken out, pale, greasy hair stuffed under a cap, looking, if he says so himself, _rough_. 

"Long time no see," he says, opening the door wider for Mark to see Hyuck yelling at people on headset while playing _Overwatch_ , which is pretty much his favorite hobby. "Come in, come in, we have snacks."

Mark settles on the floor next to the outrageously large bean bag chair Hyuck uses to game, and Hyuck passes him a glance between rounds of yelling and shooting. He gives Mark a second, longer glance that gets him sniped by an enemy Widow.

"Your team is losing the point or whatever," Mark points out, but Hyuck just respawns and listens to his team chatter without commentary, uncharacteristically subdued. 

Jaemin tosses Mark a snack-size bag of Doritos and a Choco Pie, which Mark bites into without really tasting as Hyuck leads his team to victory, muttering reluctant praise ("Moira, good job, next time focus less on one-v-one'ing the tanks and more on healing"). He drops out of his group, shuts his laptop, and shifts to face Mark, peering at him behind his glasses.

Mark sighs. He hoped this might happen while Hyuck was half-distracted with gaming, because it's not like Jaemin's presence is going to spare him, but he's not that lucky. He must _really_ look like shit.

"I take it things with Johnny Suh did not go well," Hyuck says, in a droll voice that raises Mark's hackles more than the words themselves. "Or did you suddenly remember you know other people?"

"Hey," Mark says halfheartedly. "Yeah, I fucked up, but you could hold off on rubbing that in until you actually hear what happened."

Behind them, Jaemin is watching a horror movie on his tablet, and the sounds of screaming and labored breathing with ominous music overtop seem like a fitting soundtrack for this moment. 

Hyuck opens Mark's Doritos and helps himself to a chip, chewing ponderously. "I promise not to judge until you're done," he concedes. "Nana, please put in earbuds like a decent human being."

"But I want to hear about Mark," Jaemin protests. "This is my room, too."

"He can listen," Mark says. "It's not like you don't tell him everything anyway."

"That's true," Jaemin says brightly. He turns off his horror movie and moves to sit on Hyuck's other side, pressed against the wall, but not before passing Mark one of the highly coveted ciders his parents ship over from Seoul every semester and that he hoards like a dragon. Mark understands the gravity of being allowed one, even if he doesn't think it's anything special.

"Fair warning, a lot of this is me being dumb," he starts, and Hyuck huffs but gestures for him to go on.

\---

"Okay," Jaemin says, once Mark has gotten through the whole mess—including passing around his phone so they could see Johnny's words without the filter of Mark's interpretation. "That actually sucks."

"Yeah," Mark agrees, draining the last of the cider. 

Everyone always says how much better it feels to get things out, to confess, but Mark just feels drained and roughly the same amount of anxious. Some of it is waiting for the evisceration of Donghyuck's judgment—there was a reason he kept Hyuck out of the loop, and it was because Hyuck would have pointed out some ugly truths before Mark tripped all over them—but also because there's no real advice for this. Nothing can take it back. 

What is Hyuck or Jaemin going to say to Mark that he doesn't already know? That "hey, come meet my parents" is a wild-ass thing to agree to if you think you're hooking up? That he's an idiot baby gay who got in over his head and didn't read the writing on the wall, and he needs to do better in the future? Mark's spent the last few days face to face with his failings. Having a breakdown in someone's bathroom really does wonders for self-awareness.

"First of all," Hyuck says, calm as a still pond and handing Mark's cell phone back to him, "fuck Johnny Suh."

Mark's unable to curtail his surprise at that, his eyebrows going up. Hyuck just looks back at him levelly.

"'Just a word of advice for the future,'" he echoes in his meanest voice. "Please. No one's dick is that good."

Jaemin cackles, and Mark tries not to feel uncomfortable over Hyuck's awareness of Johnny's dick as a concept related to Mark. "I hurt him, Donghyuck," he says. "He's allowed to send a few shitty text messages."

"I don't care about Johnny's feelings, though. Ssi-bal, this isn't even about him." Hyuck's hair, longer than it's been in a while and without any of his usual styling products, flops over his brow and brushes against his right glasses lens. "It's about you."

"Sure," Mark says, skeptical. "But this is about me and how I acted around Johnny. Like, I don't expect you to do anything about it, or anything, I just needed to tell someone—"

"My best friend comes to me looking like a kicked dog and doesn't expect me to do anything about it, okay." Hyuck's still calm, none of his usual animation, but his intensity is still there, pinning Mark in place. "You always tell me things after they happen. You never want help."

"This is helping," Mark argues, though by his own internal admission it's not. He feels worse than he did before he got here, officially.

"You just want me to yell at you for fucking up. I'm not gonna do it."

"Okay?" 

"What I'm going to do is ask why you've spent the last two years letting men treat you like meat."

"What," Mark says.

"You don't even like it. You cried when that guy from Grindr gave you a fake number." The memory of the dude Mark lost his V-card to is not one he likes to dwell on, not least because it was the first time he cried in years. He flashes a horrified look at Jaemin to see his face soft with sympathy that turns Mark's stomach. "You find someone to sleep with, regret it, and feel guilty until you do it again six months later. If you liked hooking up with strangers, if you really didn't like dating, I wouldn't care, but you don't."

Despite the unflinching brutality of what Hyuck's saying, his voice has turned kind and sad. He touches Mark's wrist and lets his hand hover in the air when Mark jerks his whole arm back.

"You don't need to run off and date Johnny Suh," Hyuck says patiently. "I'm not saying that. You should stop doing things to make yourself miserable, though."

"You know what my situation is," Mark says in a low, furious voice he almost doesn't recognize. "Oh my God, Hyuck, you _know_ what it's like for me back in Vancouver." 

Hyuck is quiet for a moment, though not once has he glanced away. "I know. I just worry you will hurt yourself like this for the rest of your life."

"That's—" Something that's occurred to Mark before, too. Uncomfortably close to the shape of the future he tries not to think about. "That's my choice. I need my family more than I need a fucking white picket fence."

"Of course it's your choice. But you could still date someone and be in the closet. It isn't all or nothing."

"My cousin's had the same 'roommate' for like fifteen years," Jaemin says. "The family seems fine with it."

Yeah, that's for sure what Mark wants, fifteen years of loaded questions and make-believe about the girls he and his _roommate_ are "dating" that always seem to end up not working out. He wants to be the black spot on his family tree that everyone carefully talks circles around. He wants to be the weird old single uncle with no kids of his own. 

As much as Mark wants to slap the knowing look off Hyuck's face, as much as Hyuck doesn't—can't—understand, since he's never opened his mouth and told anyone he's a flavor of queer even though Mark has cobbled that conclusion together from a thousand hints, he knows Hyuck's not wrong. Or at least he's in the neighborhood of right. 

"I can't do it," he says at length, voice shaking. "I can't come out, Hyuck. Not yet or— I don't know what I'm going to do." About Johnny. About his shitty hookups. About what happens once he's back in Canada. He's twenty, turning twenty-one in a little over a week, and the excuses he's made for himself about taking his time in America to figure things out are rapidly dwindling.

Hyuck's mouth turns down. "Can I hug you?" he asks in Korean. "What do you need?"

Mark doesn't say anything, but he lets Hyuck fold him into his arms, breathing in his fruity shampoo and a hint of Cool Ranch. He feels a palm cup the back of his head despite the fact that Hyuck's arms are at his waist and realizes Jaemin must be in on their awkward hug, too. He doesn't invite touch from Hyuck very often, though nine times out of ten Hyuck will find excuses to touch Mark anyway, and he's used to that. This, deliberately choosing to let Hyuck comfort him, is so strange his body feels like it's buzzing, but it's not bad. Mark lets himself hide his face in Hyuck's shoulder, blocking out the world.

When he finally pulls back, his glasses are askew, and Hyuck fixes them for him. The silence is heavy, and Mark finds himself breaking it with a pathetic, "I still have his mom's Tupperware, Hyuckie. What do I _do_?"

Hyuck laughs at him, which isn't a new experience by any means. Still, he's been laser-focused with seriousness, and the return of his loudness, his energy, is like a balloon being popped. He drags Mark half on top of him so they're crammed on the bean bag chair together, and Mark goes with a minimum of complaining.

"Awwww, group hug," Jaemin says. Mark has a split second of dawning fear before he flops his full weight atop the pair of them, eyes twinkling and bony limbs jabbing into sensitive places.

"Nana, that's my spleen! Off, off," Hyuck yells, and Mark can't help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to pester me on twitter [sneakethsnek](http://twitter.com/sneakethsnek).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks! The conclusion to this fic and the promised happy ending. (Sorry it took a little longer; I had a dental thing in the middle, and a birthday, and it turns out endings are hard if you half-assed that part of your outline. Who knew?)
> 
> I can't thank everyone enough for their support and encouragement. The reception to this series has blown me away, especially given how it started as PWP I couldn't get out of my head. I appreciate all of your comments, tweets, and DMs so much. It's all gotten me through some extremely rough months. 
> 
> Specific thank yous to: Meg, Macie, Demetria, Core, the rest of the Discord crew, and my betas Tay and Mon, who helped me so, so much. 
> 
> Mon has been my sounding board and my confidence for all 50k of this, cheering me on and wailing at me in the gdoc. You're incredible, Mon!!!!! I need to buy you twenty drinks. Thank you for all your hard work and honesty.
> 
> Tay held my hand and fixed my weird mistakes (and my ten million useless "just"s) and was somehow invested in helping me wrangle this random kpop AU? Like, she doesn't even go here! What a spectacular friendship. <3 Tay, I promise I'll make us quesadillas when COVID lets me leave my damn house again.
> 
> Okay, enough stalling! Onto the conclusion.

Johnny's radio silence chomps at Mark's attention and focus, and despite his best intentions, he finds himself slipping back into bad habits. He puts off replying to texts from his mom because he doesn't think he can pretend to be upbeat; he busks too many hours in the hot sun and spends most of the money within twenty-four hours so he has to do it all over again; he hurts his hands practicing too much; and he goes back to spending every other evening with Hyuck and Jaemin. 

He could use a roommate to force him into, like, cleaning the room and speaking to other human beings, but someone taking Lucas' place is too much to grapple with. He'll put that off until the literal day he gets a roommate assignment.

Basically, after having his habit of avoiding things blow up in his face, Mark's right back to moonwalking away from his problems and pretending they don't exist.

He misses Johnny. 

He's so humiliated by being so myopic about his own life that he forgot other people lived differently. It's not even like Mark thinks every queer dude under the age of thirty only hooks up—he knows plenty who date seriously, who have committed partners. He doesn't think everyone is sleeping with strangers or doing no-strings-attached stuff with their friends. It's not something he can have, so he boarded up the idea and poured concrete around it and, you know, just forgot to mention that to Johnny. For months.

He's also burning up with unfinished business like he's a fucking ghost desperate to cross over. Johnny's silence haunts him. Mark can't do much of anything now without thinking about Johnny—a weird experience he has while busking, he wants to text that to him. He finds a meme he thinks Ten would laugh at and remembers Ten's off-limits, now. But more than all of the small stuff, he wants answers Johnny won't give him. And it's not like he can violate Johnny's clear line in the sand and ask.

Hyuck and one of Hyuck's friends that Mark's only met once drag him out for noraebang to celebrate his twenty-first birthday, courtesy of Hyuck's fake ID. Maybe it's because they're rolling dice against being arrested (though Hyuck's used a dozen times all over the city, usually in noraebang rooms), but Mark goes into it with a distant feeling of dread. He's too mopey to have a good time, and he suspects the second he gets liquor in him he'll make Bad Decisions. 

Still, he makes half an effort to pretend like he's happy to be celebrating; he showers off all his sticky sweat from busking, picks out a fit Hyuck won't make fun of, and does a face mask, though that's partially because his skin has reverted to looking like shit because he's been skipping his nightly routine. 

He Ubers to the address Hyuck texted him and is unsurprised to find it trendy and expensive-looking, a far cry from the joints he and Lucas used to hit up to sing. They stuck to the all-ages places, venues Hyuck would never be caught dead in.

Hyuck is already inside a room, so Mark gets to make his grand entrance while the dude whose name Mark doesn't know is reading aloud ddukbokki add-ins and their prices. There are three pitchers of beer on the little table. _Three._

"Oh my Jesus, is it like one each?" Mark nods to the guy and slides in next to Hyuck. "Or are more people coming?"

"I ordered you pajeon," Hyuck says, ignoring his questions entirely. He's scrolling through what looks like a song list, but it's not the well-curated Excel sheet of his favorite songs, ranked by difficulty. There's a reason Lucas—chill, funny Lucas who treated karaoke like a fun night out and not an Olympic sport—was his buddy for stuff like this and not Hyuck. "Did you eat today?"

"Yeah." The turkey sandwich he nabbed from a convenience store for lunch doesn't feel totally digested, honestly.

"You should try the chicken," the guy suggests.

"It's kinda weird we're sitting in dead-ass silence," Mark points out. He can hear muffled bass and warbling from one of the other rooms. He reaches for a napkin and wraps it around the wing, not excited to get sauce all over himself and inevitably his clothes. 

"This is the first time Taeil is hearing me sing, so." Hyuck is trying to find something with maximum impact, Mark guesses. He chews his bite of chicken, leans out to catch Taeil's eye, and gives him a 'what can you do' look. He gets a bemused grin in response. The dude's already friends with Hyuck. He's aware of what it's like. "Did you invite anyone, by the way?"

"I mean, I texted a few people, but it's kinda short notice." 

Hyuck just shakes his head as he continues browsing the song list. In this low lighting, against the dark red-painted walls, he looks older and sharper-faced. He dressed up, too, in a nearly sheer dress shirt with many buttons undone, shadows pooling in his collarbones. He looks like he's wearing eyeshadow and left off his glasses to show it off. He looks good. Mark, despite his efforts, looks like a schlub compared to him. "I told you last week to reserve tonight, Mark-ya. You could have asked them then."

"I've had a lot on my mind," Mark says tightly.

One of the employees opens the door, balancing a huge plate of pajeon and soju bottles. They somehow make room for everything on the already crammed table. Taeil pours him the first shot, which Mark takes, and it's flavored soju, some kind of citrus, that burns nice all the way down. 

"Okay," he says around a cough from the sting of the soju, "I legit can't take this silence, I'm picking something."

Mark grabs the place's iPad and sorts by recent hits, and he's about to queue a Post Malone song when Hyuck yanks it out of his hands.

" _No_ , we are not starting with your depression playlist."

"Pick something in the next thirty seconds or I'm invoking, like, birthday privileges and picking all the songs."

Hyuck sulkily picks a BoA song, and Mark sits back to watch him do his thing. If Taeil hasn't seen Hyuck perform (inasmuch as howling into a shitty noraebang mic to a midi backing track counts as performing), he's in for it. Taeil pours Mark some shots and a glass of beer, and Mark eats like half of the pajeon before Hyuck even hits the glory note.

When Hyuck is finished, Mark is far less sober, and Taeil looks impressed. When Taeil claps, Hyuck gives a sarcastic bow, and Mark thinks he sees a flush on Hyuck's cheeks that can't be blamed on liquor, since Hyuck hasn't had a shot yet.

\---

Taeil waits until everyone has had a turn before he gets up and fiddles with the mic.

"I heard Donghyuck likes Michael Jackson, so I practiced this," he says shyly, as _I Just Can't Stop Loving You_ starts. "I hope you enjoy."

Next to him, Hyuck stiffens and sets his phone down. Mark is elbow-deep in wings and beer, but he stops eating long enough to gape at the sounds coming from Taeil's mouth. He's good. Like, really good. And it's clear he's holding back, gliding around and getting comfortable in his mix register.

"Oh my God." Hyuck grabs Mark's thigh.

"Where did you find this man?" Mark mutters into his ear.

"He—he was just on campus, trying to find the library. He looked lonely," Hyuck hisses back. "I had no idea. Oh my God?"

Taeil continues absolutely killing it as if his audience isn't gossiping about him. He smiles a few times between notes, so Mark thinks he's aware of his impact—for one, it'd be hard to miss how Donghyuck's eyes are gleaming, his mouth parted as he stares—but also, with a voice like that, he must be accustomed to flooring people. 

Mark's phone starts buzzing incessantly in his pocket, and he pulls it out to find Lucas is trying to video call him. Given that Taeil is still mid-chorus, and odds are that Donghyuck will want to sit him down and interrogate him after, Mark thinks he's clear to sneak out and talk for a few minutes. When he stands, he's immediately unsteady, and Hyuck laughs at him as he feels along the wall on his way out.

"Be right back." The door closes behind him and muffles Taeil's voice. He accepts the call in the dim hallway, and Lucas starts singing _Happy Birthday_ the second Mark pops up on his screen. "Holy shit, Lucas, hold on."

The hallway is cramped, and occasionally an employee has to make their way down it with platters full of food and drink; just standing there is too disruptive, so Mark hunts for the bathroom. It's thankfully empty, for now, and relatively quiet, and he secures himself in there, next to the sink. 

"Hokay, Jesus, here I am."

Lucas giggles at him. "You're in the bathroom? I feel so special."

"It was that or not being able to hear you over the sounds of Hyuckie's new best friend belting Michael Jackson. How are you?" Mark demands, squinting at his screen as if that will make him less drunk. Lucas' hair is fluffy, his T-shirt hanging off his shoulder. "Awww, did you just wake up?"

"I set my alarm, man! I wanted to wish you a happy birthday when it's actually your birthday there." He yawns wide and loud, tinny over the dubious connection, and Mark laughs because it reminds him of hearing Lucas' grumpy morning routine every day for months. "So how is it? You at karaoke?"

"Yeah, Donghyuck booked us a room at this fancy noraebang place."

"Sing Bieber in my honor," Lucas says, and he firms his expression into determination when Mark groans. "No, really, do it. Have Hyuck record it. It'll be like I'm there."

"I wish you _were_ here, man. I miss you." He leans against the wall near the paper-towel dispenser even though he knows it's germy as hell. But standing on his own seems like a surefire way to end up falling over or getting dizzy. "I miss you so much." 

"Mark," Lucas asks, sounding delighted, "are you drunk?"

"Ah, you found me out." He smooths a hand across his cheeks to feel how warm they are, and yeah, he's flushed. "I'm out drinking on my twenty-first birthday." 

"If you won't sing Bieber in my honor, at least do a shot for me."

"I'm probably capable of that. D'you have any plans for the day?" Mark asks.

"Just hanging out, man. I have the day off." Lucas moved back to Hong Kong with half a plan, self-described as 'helping my parents with their restaurant and, like, doing whatever until I find a real job.' "Did you invite Yuqi to karaoke? You know she's always down."

Mark shakes his head. Yuqi was Lucas' friend. It would have been awkward to invite her for a Mark-only thing. Sure, he feels weird about Hyuck having dragged along a veritable stranger, but that's Hyuck; he forces his friend groups together like mismatched LEGOs because he's too busy to hang out with people separately. 

Lucas was Mark's first up-close exposure to true popularity, where Lucas could go anywhere and someone would know him or he'd manage to make new friends. Even if the night started out just Lucas and Mark, by the end of it, they'd have picked up stragglers. Mark got overwhelmed sometimes, mostly when people stopped by their dorm room all the time until Lucas noticed and told people to stick to texting first, but it was still nice to know he wouldn't be lonely if he stuck to Lucas. 

Now that Lucas is gone, Mark doesn't have the bravery or social pull to reach out. Hence why he's at his own birthday celebration with his best friend and some guy his best friend found wandering campus.

"Next time, I can invite Yuqi for you," Lucas says with the gentleness he's always capable of for Mark. "No big deal, hey?"

"Yeah," Mark says, swallowing hard. He pauses, gathering his thoughts now that he has Lucas on the line and is drunk enough to be honest. "Question, uh, do you ever have second thoughts? About moving back?"

Lucas cocks his head but doesn't seem put off by the sudden subject change. "To Hong Kong? Nah. I mean, I miss you, I miss campus, I miss American food—but I can get a lot of that here. It's my home, you know? And I'm only like half as funny and charming in English."

"Are you… Do you think you'll stay near your parents?"

"Maybe?" Lucas scratches his neck and makes a face as he considers. "Depends if I get a job somewhere else, or if I meet someone. My parents don't really need my help, and my mom keeps talking about retiring to Thailand, and I don't know that I want to live there full-time."

Mark doesn't even have the excuse that his parents own a restaurant and want to pass it down to him. He doesn't have the excuse that his home country's culture is super measurably different from America, either; he prefers Canada, of course, but there was next to no culture shock once he moved because he'd been fed American culture every day of his life. There's no language barrier, either, though it did take Mark several marked-up papers to figure out how to switch his dictionary from Canadian English over to U.S. in Microsoft Word. 

"And if you met someone and they wanted to move to, like, Macau—or like, Detroit?"

"Then I guess I'd move to Macau?" Lucas says, bewildered. "Or we work it out and stay here? Mark, is this—"

Hyuck literally kicks the bathroom door in, drunk and wearing subtly heeled boots. Mark, having turned to the door when he heard a loud fucking noise, sees him wobble as he redistributes his weight onto two feet. "Are you in here crying about _Johnny_?" he demands.

"No! What the fuck!" Hyuck crams himself into Mark's space, nearly knocking his head against the paper-towel dispenser. "I'm talking to Lucas, you demon."

Hyuck wraps himself around Mark and glances at the call to see Lucas grinning at the pair of them. "Xuxi," he says, stroking Mark's sweaty neck, "is Mark lying to me?"

Lucas hesitates, and Mark's affection for him goes down a tick. "No," he says slowly. "He's just asking me weird questions."

"Sounds like Mark," Hyuck says, rubbing his chin against Mark's shoulder so hard it hurts. "Drunk and sad on his _birthday_ when he could be _singing_ with me."

"Lucas called me! Sorry for having a friend," Mark scoffs. Hyuck smells like Hyuck and also expensive cologne, and in this lighting, with Hyuck so close, he can see how much eye makeup he has on. He looks really good. Mark squeezes his hip. "You look nice, Hyuckie."

"Yes," Hyuck sighs. "All dressed up and you left me in there by myself."

"Taeil is _your_... whatever," Mark objects. "You invited him!"

"Okayyyy," Lucas says, laughing, "I think I should let you go. Mark, happy birthday, man. I love you."

"Aw, me too, man," Mark croaks, and it's humiliating that Hyuck is wrapped around him and can feel how bowled over he is hearing that from Lucas. 

It's not like he didn't think Lucas cared about him—that was pretty clear during week one of their roommateship, when Lucas answered a bunch of Mark's hypotheticals until he got fed up and said, "Hypothetically, I would have no problem living with a gay person. Hypothetically, I think gay people named Mark Lee are really cool." It's just that Lucas has never said that. Love.

"Donghyuck, make sure he lives through the night, okay?"

"Mmmkay," Hyuck agrees, and then Lucas' face, thousands of miles away and not here, vanishes from the screen.

Mark slips his phone back into his pocket but makes no move to dislodge Hyuck, who is still draped around Mark like an overprotective parent dropping their kid off for their first day at preschool. Not that Mark lived through that song and dance until the first day of sixth grade or anything.

It's always easier to touch and be touched when he's drunk. He feels Hyuck's breath hitting his neck. He keeps his arm wrapped around Hyuck's waist. 

"Mark," Hyuck whispers, and Mark makes an inquisitive sound, closing his eyes against the slight flickering of the overhead light. They need to stop hanging out in the bathroom, but Mark isn't ready to stagger back to the room yet. He's still shaking off the strange mood he fell into during the call with Lucas. "I'm afraid of Taeil."

His eyes fly open, and he starts laughing before he can say anything. "Of Taeil? Because he's as good of a singer as you, you mean?"

"He's _better than me_ ," Hyuck groans into Mark's chest. "It's awful."

"I'll tell you what's awful—me third-wheeling your weird date with Taeil on my birthday."

Hyuck actually lets go of him, leaning back and looking gobsmacked. "He isn't… Fuck, Mark, I invited him because your friends are too chicken to get a fake ID."

Mark shudders. "God, I need new friends. This is so fucking sad."

"It's not sad that your friends are out of town or can't come out drinking on a Sunday night," Hyuck says, and Mark feels a flutter of warmth in his chest over how, deep down, Hyuck is always on his side. "Your life is sad for other reasons."

That at least tugs a weary laugh out of him, as intended. "Okay, we should… not leave Taeil in there by himself, shit."

The two of them make their way out of the bathroom, and luckily Taeil doesn't seem too perturbed at having been abandoned, though his entire vibe so far, when not singing, is just politely bewildered. Mark can relate.

After having a spiritual experience with a Bruno Mars song, Mark gets a text from Wendy saying she's stopping by with a birthday present for him. They're not close or frequent friends, but she welcomed him into the LGBT student life club like she was shepherding a baby lamb, all but holding his hand through meetings and showing him queer-friendly spots around campus. He's glad she's decided to stick around Chicago after finishing her Master's, even if he suspects it's for a girl as much as the city. When she appears in their red room, and with a totally different haircolor from when Mark last saw her, he's so fucking hyped on rapping and soju that he ends up _hugging her_ , too. Drunk Mark really is a different creature.

She laughs in his hold and kisses his cheek, accepting compliments and a shot for coming all the way out for him. Somewhere between convincing her to stay for a duet with Hyuck and opening the gift she brought him—a sleek silver bracelet with a delicate charm that she said reminded her of him, whatever that means—Mark finished several drinks. 

The evening melts into dizzy snapshots: Wendy digging in her purse for a hair tie to perfect her Ariana Grande imitation; Hyuck absolutely losing it over Taeil's cover of a Stevie Wonder song; all of them sharing mics to sing george's _Boat_ ; Mark and Hyuck doing not their worst _Billionaire_ but nowhere near their best, especially since the drunker Hyuck gets, the more English he loses. 

Mark has a slip of a memory of being wrapped up next to Hyuck in the cab, heart in his throat with affection for his drunk, complicated best friend who dragged him out for the only kind of therapy Mark can stand—music. That one fades after he opens his texts and sees the damning silence Johnny left behind. 

The rest of the night is far less worth remembering. He collapses into bed without brushing his teeth or washing his face, though he managed to peel off most of his clothes and chugged a room-temperature bottle of water he'd had the foresight to leave out for himself. He plays with the delicate silver on his wrist, smiling at Wendy's thoughtfulness. He should make a note of her birthday and get her something nice. 

He thinks about how usually he's loaded down with presents from his family, how his mom shipped him a big box but it hasn't shown up to his dorm yet. He thinks about how he'd been looking forward to spending his twenty-first with Johnny, who would know how to make it special and memorable.

He thinks about silence again. About the way he can't think of anything without thinking of Johnny, eventually.

At some point, he passes out. 

\---

Mark wakes with a splitting headache and the sinking feeling that he texted Johnny last night, which feels worse than the hangover. Mark groans, recoils at the smell of his own breath, and digs for his phone under his pillow to see how bad the damage is.

It's pretty bad. 

Mark's headache starts throbbing in time with his heartbeat, which is accelerated; it's a little like his temples are being tap-danced on. 

**Mark:** Imso DUCKING ANGRY at u  
**Mark:** What thr fuck man

Well, Mark thinks through a swell of nausea and mortification, it could be worse. He could have texted about the way he can't even get off now without thinking of Johnny, how his body and brain battled it out for what felt like hours as he worked himself up to orgasm while trying to think of nothing but only being able to conjure up incendiary images of Johnny. 

Or Mark could have sent something during one of the nights he was unable to sleep, tossing and turning and replaying moments with Johnny's family versus memories of his own. There's no way to articulate _I don't live on the same planet as you_ without sounding self-pitying or accusatory, and it's not like it matters now. Johnny wanted to be serious; Mark had no idea it was an option; and now Johnny won't answer his pathetic drunk texts.

He spends a few minutes feeling sorry for himself, staring at the lack of response, until the hangover snaps his patience.

 **Mark:** Sorry, was out drinking for bday and it got away from me  
**Mark:** But tbh? Still kinda angry I guess

Johnny doesn't reply to that, either. 

\---

Halfway through his planned set busking in Millennium Park, Mark realizes that he's been thinking about Johnny pretty much the whole time, and his mood is sinking with each person who drops him a pity quarter. 

"Does anyone have any requests?" he asks the half-interested cluster of people near him, smiling with gritted teeth, hoping someone will suggest something so ubiquitous and overdone that Mark can't possibly link it back to Johnny somehow.

Unfortunately for him, a little girl shouts Billie Eilish. 

Mark guesses at most the chord progressions because he's never had occasion to sit down and practice Billie Eilish; he's usually busy _lying in bed feeling emo_ when he listens to Billie Eilish. 

Singing her lyrics, even hushed and putting most of his attention on the guitar, feels like tugging at something very deep and essential in Mark's body. Ultimately, he does a credible version with his shitty range, smiles at the five-dollar bill someone drops, and hopes he can find a way to _do his job_ without thinking of Johnny Suh, despite the fact that he can't jerk off or eat or function without somehow having Johnny Suh Thoughts.

The next person requests Creedence Clearwater Revival. Mark draws in a grateful breath before diving in. At least there's no way for his brain to try to make a bad moon rising about Johnny.

\---

Mark's had enough hindsight (more like over a week of lying in bed reexamining every interaction they had and groaning in embarrassment at how obvious it all was) to realize how much of the varnish on Johnny has worn off. The tight, awed feeling in his chest whenever Johnny laughed at his jokes, the ferocious nervousness wondering how someone as cool as Johnny found Mark hot or interesting at all, those are gone. The pedestal Mark had him on wasn't huge, but it made Johnny loom larger in Mark's imagination. The pedestal has officially been destroyed.

Weirdly, none of that makes Mark miss him less. It just makes him ache to have a redo, to go into it with his eyes open.

It also doesn't stop him from, say, opening Johnny's photography Insta and creeping on his latest pics. He doesn't go in with any particular reason. Generally, he wants to see how Johnny is doing, if he's shot at any neat locations. 

If he's as sad as Mark is.

Johnny's story is empty, but his most recent post is of a duck, feathers gleaming in the bright sun. Mark almost laughs at how anticlimactic it is. Like, what did he think he was going to glean from Johnny's public-facing self-promotion account, a diary entry outlining all of his Mark Lee feelings? 

But then he scrolls down and sees a two-picture post of a cup coffee with fancy latte art of a heart. The second photo in this set is the heart deliberately destroyed by the spoon Johnny's pulled through it. The caption just says "Yeah."

He has no idea what to make of it. His emotions don't seem to know how to shift; part of him is bemused, part of him is furious that Johnny's willing to make some shit that looks like it belongs on Pinterest to express his feelings but won't deign to text Mark back, and part of him is genuinely upset that Johnny is fucked up about him.

He screenshots the post with the intention to send it to Hyuck, but he's not sure he wants to endure Hyuck's snidely supportive comments. It would be a lot easier if he was only angry or frustrated with Johnny, if he didn't know exactly how many moments there were when Mark could have said something about his expectations, of how many signals he let himself misread because he didn't want to rock the boat and ruin what they were to each other. 

Though Mark told himself it was just hooking up, it wasn't. He was dating Johnny, and it wasn't strictly casual. He can look back and say that with certainty now. There was a murky moat of ambiguity surrounding them the whole time, is all. That they ended up tripping and falling into it isn't exactly shocking. 

So Mark fucked up, and Johnny fucked up, and probably Mark should take this as a growing pain, as a life lesson. Johnny wasn't wrong when he said Mark should warn people up front about wanting casual, and Mark wasn't wrong when he said Johnny never disclosed that he wanted anything serious. Johnny wasn't wrong for setting a boundary, even if Mark needs the opposite of what Johnny did for closure.

Mark texts Hyuck "want dim sum?" instead of spending the rest of the night lurking on Johnny's socials in his feelings. Luckily, Hyuck always wants to go out with Mark, even when he's made other plans. His reply of seven enthusiastic emojis gives Mark a reason to roll out of bed and to restart his skincare routine so Hyuck doesn't give him that moue of displeasure, like Mark's failure to control his acne is somehow indicative of his failure to control his whole life. Which, Mark thinks as he slathers toner on his face, might be true, but he could use a break from the awareness of his own shortcomings.

\---

Johnny's left him on read for two weeks (and Mark's definitely still keeping track) when he sees Ten.

He's dragging a clothing rack of costumes along the path between Mark's classroom building and the auditorium. He looks good, wearing some gauzy white shirt over a crop top and shorts, and his hair is alarmingly blond. 

In the pre-Johnny era, he would have stopped dead upon recognizing Ten, admired his crop top, and then scurried along with his head down before someone could catch him staring.

During his Johnny era, he would have helped him out with the unwieldy rack and teased him about his hair. 

In the here and now of post-Johnny, Mark is frozen between scurrying away and sheepishly acknowledging that they spent two seasons of _Avatar_ together, got lunch and boba and snacks together, saw Johnny through his tattoo together. That Ten was friendly to him beyond what was required. It would be a punk move to put his head down and pretend none of that happened, but it also feels too close to Johnny. Like he might stand too close to the heat and get burned.

He doesn't have to spend too long navel-gazing; Ten pushes his hair back from his face, slides some costumes along the rack to redistribute the weight, and glances up to spot Mark frozen on the sidewalk. His expression slackens with shock, but that's locked up quickly behind pleasant interest.

Ten's hand goes up. "Hey, Mark."

Mark fiddles with the strap of his backpack and walks forward as if through mud. "Hey, Ten." Closer, he can see Ten is dappled in sweat, chest rising and falling as he pants and tries to contain it. Mark thinks about how his mom raised him and decides it's probably better to stick to that than finding transparent excuses to run away. "Do you need help?" 

"Yeah, I just need to get it back to storage. Can you guide the back end?"

Mark positions himself and makes sure they don't get stuck in the cracks in the pavement that their top-tier private university should maybe use their tuition dollars to fix rather than erecting yet more buildings named after rich people. Ten and Mark trudge along, the rattling of the costumes on the rack and the wheels over uneven pavement enough to make speaking pointless.

Then they're in the dark, air-conditioned, and kind of moldy-smelling storage room, after Ten punches in the passcode. Ten points at a far wall, and they park the rack there.

Now that Mark has nothing to do and would reasonably be expected to say something to Ten, he tries not to look totally out of his depth. He leans against the wall, near Ten, and clears his throat. "How have you been?"

"Oh, you know," Ten says breezily, dabbing at sweat on his face with his wrist. "Teaching. Enjoying the weather, trying to get rid of my weird farmer's tan."

Mark gives him a blank look, not sure if Ten is joking, and Ten laughs at him. "Thailand is _hot_ , angel. This is just like home."

Hearing Ten call him angel again jabs him, something Mark doesn't want to dwell on. "Hey, I'm glad somebody enjoys Chicago summers. Listen, I should get going—"

"Mark," Ten interrupts. "You look like I'm going to jump you. I don't like it." He pauses, working his lower lip between sharp-looking teeth. "Do you want a smoothie?" he asks.

"What?" 

"Let's go get you a smoothie."

\---

Ten insists on buying his drink at the bougiest of the on-campus cafes. Mark's gotten water and an overpriced bland cookie here before and hasn't been back. Ten knows at least one of the baristas (or whatever their juice equivalents are), and he leans against the counter while waiting for their order, catching up and occasionally glancing back to make sure Mark hasn't snuck away.

He can't say he hasn't thought about how much easier his life would be if he didn't have to go along with this. But he's not cowardly enough to _literally_ run away from his problems. Just figuratively.

Ten hands him his drink and steers them to a secluded table near the back. The A/C is blasting, indie coffee shop music is playing, and Ten crosses his legs, sips his green smoothie, and fixes Mark with serious, inquisitive eyes.

"Did you get like a green tea base?" Mark asks, tasting his non-dairy chocolate protein thing and deciding it's drinkable.

Ten is not dissuaded by and does not acknowledge Mark's weak attempt at distracting him. "How have you been, Mark?"

He asks it plainly, without any condescension, looking actively interested in the answer. Like he cares what Mark says, and not because of Johnny. "I mean, not great," he admits. The smoothie has a strange note in its aftertaste, but it's good, rich and not too sweet, and he takes another sip to try and identify what health things Ten put in his drink. "But you probably knew that."

Ten firms his lips. "I had a suspicion, but I hoped I was wrong."

"Ten, not that I don't appreciate this, you being cool to me, but like, why? You don't owe me anything."

"It isn't about owing you anything," Ten says, exasperated, stabbing his straw deeper into his cup. "It's about liking you. You're a nice kid."

"Thanks," Mark says, and means it, even if he's still not satisfied. "But Johnny's your best friend, and I'm some dude."

"Johnny's my best friend, so I had a pretty good seat to the whole thing. Which is why I know you need someone asking how you are."

That… hits harder than it has any right to. Mark glances down at the cafe table, buying himself a second. "I'm not… I'm not handling Johnny icing me out super well, because I kind of thought we were friends, but I, uh, I get it. I hurt him."

Ten studies him for a moment, the tip of his finger over the top of his straw, and sighs. "Angel, do you want my advice? I didn't say a lot of stuff I could have along the way, since I like to let adults handle their own business, but I think I might be able to help you."

"No offence, but I don't want to mine your friendship with Johnny to get him to text me back."

"I can tell you that if you want to fix things with Johnny, you need to call him on his shit. No mining required."

Mark's eyebrows rise. "Uh, I did, basically, and I'm still on read."

Ten slumps in his chair, one arm crossing over his chest. He flicks his pointer finger over a spinning ring on his thumb, clearly thinking. "Figures. Listen, if you want closure, you have to bang on his door. A lot."

"Well, I _want_ it, but like, it's all a waste of time, yeah? Even if I bug him enough for a text back, which is gross, it's not like we're going to work everything out and end up pen pals." 

"Why not? Do you have something against pen pals?" Ten takes an insouciant sip and blinks at Mark.

"Nothing, I just… Dude, I'm moving back to Canada. Say Johnny and I become, like, friends. We work it out. Then what? A year later, two years later, he's really gonna text that Canadian dude he had an intense summer with? He's gonna fly out to visit me?"

"Yes, knowing Johnny," Ten says, which has Mark momentarily covering his face. Christ. He hates that some part of him intrinsically knows Ten's right, that Johnny would put in work to remain in Mark's life. "But more importantly, do _you_ want Johnny to be in your life in a year or two?"

"Of course I fucking do, man. But he's gonna find someone who isn't Canadian, who isn't closeted, or a… a girl, and that's it for him. And I'm his pen pal, because he's a nice guy."

Ten is quiet for a moment, studying Mark across the table, none of his exaggerated expressions or fidgeting. "And that would hurt you," he says slowly.

"I mean, it wouldn't feel great."

"What I'm hearing from you isn't so much that being closeted is the issue, it's the distance?"

"It's all the same issue," Mark says, though that is not quite true. Ten is perilously close to stepping on things Mark won't let be stepped on. 

"What if you meet someone back home?"

"Then I guess that's my problem to figure out," Mark snaps. "Jesus, Ten, I'm living day to day right now. Can I start making plans for the rest of my life once I've graduated?"

"You can do whatever you want, Mark. It's your life. I just… You don't need to wait for things to happen to you. You'll end up waiting forever." He blows a breath so forceful it stirs his bleached bangs. "I want to say one thing and then you can tell me to shut up, and we can talk about other stuff. _I_ want to be friends with you, even if you think so little of pen pals." He levels Mark a faux-stern look, but his eyes are cautious, his body language cagey. 

Mark nods and braces himself for whatever's coming. "Yeah, do your worst, I guess." 

"Johnny locked you out because he's proud and hurt and kind of a black-and-white thinker, which I'm sure isn't news. But he's, um, touchy because he assumes you saw him as a good time." Ten sighs and presses his thumb between his eyebrows like he's got a headache brewing. "Like, he caught feelings and you thought he was... a hot piece."

"A hot piece of wh— So he thinks I think he's just a piece of ass?" Mark asks, getting increasingly high-pitched. That's not it at all, it's wildly off base, yet it's similar enough to his willfully oblivious horniness that Mark cringes. "No, that's not... Oh my God, I like him so much."

Ten's eyes gleam, and he leans across the table like he's making a point. "Then prove it!"

"How, Ten? Bang on his door, text him when he's made it clear he doesn't want to hear from me—"

"Oh, he does—"

"—when I know it's all going to end anyway?"

"It doesn't have to! Canada isn't Antarctica, Mark. It's not even… I visit my family two to four times a year, and that flight is _twenty-two hours_. You do that for people you love."

"I don't—" The words _love Johnny_ stick in his throat, and Mark sucks down a mouthful of smoothie to bury it. 

Ten lets that pass by unremarked on, because though he's ripping Mark's insides out for him to look at, he's pretty respectful about it. "If you want Johnny in your life, as a friend or something else, you need to tell him that until he hears you. Johnny's an asshole right now, and that's not your fault." Mark laughs humorlessly, because it kind of is. "It really isn't, Mark. And it isn't your job to deal with Johnny's bullshit. But if you _want_ to, even a little, I know how you can."

For all the exasperation Mark's felt during this conversation, Ten striding across territory that isn't his business, the spark of hope Mark feels is overwhelming. "How?" he asks, tired and weak, run down by weeks—if not months—of his mistakes piling up. If Johnny actually thinks he doesn't matter to Mark, that what they did didn't matter beyond the sex— If Ten has a fucking magic word, Mark might take it.

"Welllll," Ten says, looking momentarily guilty before he discards that and turns conspiratorial. "He's at his parents' getting ready for the wedding." Which is in two days, as Mark's calendar keeps reminding him. "You could go up there, talk things out, and be his plus-one the way God and my machinations intended."

"One, I can't believe you told me with a straight face that you let adults handle their own business. Two, that's the rudest thing I've ever heard in my life! Oh my God, Ten." It's so wild that Mark isn't outraged about it; he's smiling. "You can't be for real."

Ten, impossibly, takes out his phone and starts typing. Mark stares at him, at his intense squint as his thumbs work, and then is struck by horrified awareness of what Ten could be doing. "Are you texting him right now?" he squeaks.

"No, don't be ridiculous," Ten says, concluding his text and setting his phone on the table, face down. Mark relaxes in his seat some, but then Ten says, "I was texting Mama Suh."

"What the fu— What are you _doing_ , man?"

"I'm getting you permission to give Johnny the big dramatic gesture he craves. It's up to you if you take it." 

Mark's hands are shaking, to the point where he wonders if there was secretly coffee in the smoothie. "I can't just show up, not even with her permission. Johnny wants me to fuck off, so I have to fuck off."

"Did he tell you that? Or did he just dump his feelings on you and then stop replying?" Ten takes a strong sip of his drink until his straw noisily hits an air pocket. 

Before Mark can corral his thoughts, Ten's phone buzzes with a new text. His face when he sees what Johnny's mom wrote speaks volumes, as it looks like victory, and Mark can't bear hearing what she might have said.

He stands up, the chair scraping against the floor loud and abrupt. "I can't do this. This is… Legit, this is too much."

Ten eyes him, the excitement leaving his face. Mark's gripping the strap of his backpack, body thrumming with a desire to leave. But he's still not enough of a coward to actually run. "That's fine, then," he says, low and measured. "I wanted you to have the option."

"The option to what? Humiliate myself and trample Johnny's boundaries and, like, the _concept_ of—of etiquette?" 

Ten looks so cool and calm and collected, staring up at Mark with his serious eyes and placid expression. Like he didn't suggest something impossible. "The option to have a face-to-face conversation with him, and honestly? To see him crumble once he gets a look at you in a suit."

"Thanks, I guess? But that's just— It's not me, Ten."

"I believe you. You know yourself the best." He stands up from his own seat, and he stands an arm's length away from Mark. "I'd hug you, but I think you're not a hugger, so let's call the smoothie my best attempt at comfort, yeah?"

Mark looks down at the drink still sitting on the table, unfinished. "It means a lot that you've always been nice to me."

"Does it mean enough that you'll actually give me your number so I can text you? Be your pen pal?" Ten teases.

"Yeah, but only if you never text me about this," Mark says with a nervous laugh. 

Ten gives a closed-mouth smile and holds his hand out, palm up, for Mark's phone. "I promise to mind my own business."

\---

When he tells Donghyuck about Ten's outrageous proposal, busting in on his usual studying time at the back of the library to do so, Hyuck laughs his meanest laugh.

"You should go specifically to yell at him in public," Donghyuck says. "I'd pay money to watch that."

"Thanks for your help, you're the best friend ever," Mark says, deadpan, slung in one of the uncomfortable old chairs the staff have stashed here. The place is nearly deserted this late in the evening, so they don't have to whisper, but something about having this conversation in the library feels like trespassing. 

Hyuck's utter lack of taking Ten's suggestion seriously soothes the second-guessing Mark's been battling most of the afternoon. Sure, yeah, it's as likely that Mark would show up to the suburbs for Grace's wedding to work things out with Johnny as it is for Mark to show up and start a fight with him. 

He's glad he's moved beyond the stage of not telling Donghyuck stuff to spare his own feelings, at least. 

Mark waits for Hyuck to finish his study session and walks him back to his dorm, where Jaemin and Hyuck both try to get him to come in, eat convenience-store kimbap, and game, but Mark's had enough socialization for the day.

The stuffy, too-warm dorm room still feels hollow without Lucas, but he's gotten used to sleeping and living in privacy over the last few months. Mark showers, does his skincare routine, and even finds the mouthguard he's supposed to wear to stop grinding his teeth into stubs at night and pops it into his mouth after giving it a thorough wash. 

He watches more tiny house content and thinks about his busking schedule, and Johnny Suh only inserts himself into Mark's train of thought once every thirty seconds.

It's bearable. He can live like this until something changes—like him getting on a plane and going home. 

\---

Friday night finds Mark playing _Overcooked_ badly, so late into the night that Jaemin has passed out on his bed among the refuse of candy wrappers and shrimp chip crumbs. Historically, he sleeps through light and noise fairly well, so Hyuck and Mark keep playing; Hyuck keeps goblin hours at the best of times, and summer seems to have really set him off. It's nice to have an excuse to not be alone with his thoughts, even though it involves Hyuck hissing criticisms of Mark's ability to move plates around and hyping him up in equal turns.

At around one a.m., his phone lights up with an incoming call, and Mark glances at it mostly because it's weird someone is calling him this late. He worries for a second it might be his mom calling about an emergency, but then he realizes it's—Johnny.

Johnny is calling him. 

And Hyuck has just realized it, too, pausing the game and leaning forward like he might grab the phone himself.

Panicking, Mark grabs his phone and answers it, keenly aware of Hyuck's eyes on him, and there's silence on the line, making him worry he missed the call.

"Oh, you're awake," Johnny says, and Mark fights a full-body shiver at what the sound of his voice does to him. "Shit, I'm sorry."

He can't have this conversation, _any_ conversation, sitting on Hyuck's floor with Jaemin making his nasal little snores two feet from him. He can't stand knowing Hyuck could witness Mark's vulnerability, and that he'll be watching Mark like a hawk for the first sign of trouble.

Mark breathes out a, "Hi, hold on, I'm just leaving Hyuck's, I need to finish putting my shoes on." Hyuck follows him as he walks toward the door and jams his feet into his sneakers, stomping once as gently as he can to shove them on without messing with the laces. "I'll see you later," he murmurs, covering the phone's mic with his palm. Hyuck stares at him, and Mark makes a face that's pleading and confused. "I'll text you if I need you," he says, and Hyuck sighs, nods, and flicks a lock of hair off Mark's forehead. He needs a cut soon; it's getting longer than he likes it.

He sees himself out of Hyuck's room and down the hall, chancing a "Just in the hallway now, one more sec," and he hears Johnny's patient noise of affirmation.

When he gets to the stairs that lead outside, Mark pushes out a breath but tries to keep it quiet. "Okay, I can talk now." 

"Okay."

Mark's shoes slap on the stairwell, and he pushes open the exit door and takes a gulp of night air, thick and relatively cool. It's still warmer than he'd like, but it's nothing as bad as the daytime. 

"Johnny," he says carefully, starting on the same oft-traveled and substantial walk back to his own dorm at the south end of campus from Hyuck and Jaemin's north. "You're pretty quiet for being the one who called me."

Across the line, Johnny sighs, the end of it tilting into a weary laugh. "Sorry. I was expecting you to be asleep so I could ramble into your voicemail."

"Well, sorry for ruining your plans."

"God, you didn't, this is—better." There's another pause, another sigh, and Mark hears a car horn in the background. 

"Are you outside?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm outside the piano bar where Gracie is having her bachelorette thing."

"Oh." Her wedding is the next day, Mark remembers. He hopes she's having a nice night.

"I came by to give her a present, and to hang for a bit. She asked about you, and I wanted to tell you that— I wanted to apologize for… Anyway, I missed you, and I'm weak."

"You're also drunk," Mark accuses, laughing a little at his realization. 

"That, too," Johnny says wryly.

Mark bites his lip, glancing up at the canopy of stars above him, though this deep in the city, despite the pastoral aspects to the campus, there's a lot of haze from light pollution. There's almost no one out and about at this hour; during regular semesters, the quad and all the walking paths are dotted with people even late at night, but not now, in summer session. 

"I should— You wouldn't call me if you were sober," Mark says decisively, though he's inwardly screaming at himself to take the opportunity he's finally got to talk to Johnny. "I should let you go."

"No— Fuck, Mark. I'm a few whiskey sours in, but I'm not trashed. I keep picking up my phone and drafting you these awful enormous texts and then deleting them." Johnny's voice is matter-of-fact, quick, like Mark's going to end the call unceremoniously and Johnny needs to get this in first. "I want to talk to you. I'm just… humiliated."

"Because you didn't know I was…" Mark trails off, uncomfortable putting a name to it with Johnny finally talking to him after weeks of icy silence. He feels like if he says the truth, Johnny will remember his hurt and retreat again.

"Because I acted like an asshole and then compounded it by being more of an asshole. Because you were right."

"You don't owe me anything, Johnny. That's kind of the point?"

"No, I at least… I owe you a reply to your texts," Johnny says, in the voice of someone wincing through an unspoken apology. "I owe being honest to you. About my feelings for you." 

Mark's even less sure what to say. He tries to come up with something, stalling with "Johnny," but ultimately, Johnny continues, voice urgent in Mark's ear.

"Would you believe I thought I was being smart, _mature_ , by not telling you I wanted you for real? That I was being respectful by not letting you know I'm crazy about you?"

Mark is silent, but he thinks Johnny can hear his slightly labored breathing as he keeps his pace up, striding through the patches of sidewalk and grass lit well by lamps and the darker sections that usually creep him out. It's eerie, being alone but feeling overwhelmed with Johnny's presence, which is in reality just a voice coming through his phone.

"My last partner, we broke up because I went all in too fast." Johnny chuckles, but it has an edge of bitterness. "So I figured I didn't need to scare you off by, uh, how did they put it? 'Trying to U-Haul me after a month.'"

If Johnny had opened his mouth at any point and asked Mark the sort of question that might involve the word _partner_ (the word alone sends uncomfortable heat up Mark's spine), he would have bolted. The only reason they lasted as long as they did was because both Mark and Johnny stayed silent. 

"I get that," Mark says.

"It's not an excuse. You thought you were, uh, having some normal casual sex, and little did you know, I'm the guy who grew up with a grand plan to get married and start a family by twenty-five."

Mark almost trips and eats it on what he knows is very unforgiving pavement. The flat self-recrimination of Johnny's words is enough to rattle him, but then there's Mark's honest surprise. Johnny complained so much about weddings, to the point where he bemoaned small stuff Mark thought actually sounded cute. Mark supposes disliking the performance and drama of weddings, or even the heteronormativity baked into the concept itself, while still wanting to, like, actually partake in the institution isn't mutually exclusive. But _planning_ on it with such a firm date in mind? Mark has a hard time reconciling that with Johnny's easy-going nature, otherwise.

Maybe that's the point. He doesn't know Johnny that well. 

"We both know we should have sat down and talked about it," Mark says. "Like, way earlier."

"Yeah, but then we would have stopped way earlier, too." Johnny falls meaningfully silent.

Yeah, Mark can't regret the time he spent with Johnny over the last few months. Not the chill stuff, like when they'd be on Johnny's couch and work their own projects in comfy silence, or the times Johnny ordered food for himself that was weird to Mark's under-stimulated taste buds to see if Mark would take his dare and try some of it. 

He super doesn't regret the time he spent getting fucked _really_ well. Mark blows out a heavy breath. "I was thinking before, if either of us had said something, we wouldn't have gotten past that hookup at the party. It wouldn't have gone anywhere."

"Right," Johnny says, rough. "And I think I hate the idea of that."

Mark is shocked silent at the honesty, almost shy under it. He struggles to find something to say, even if it's to agree, because this sucks, this sucks so hard, but not having had the last few months would be a tremendous loss. 

"Hypothetically," Johnny says. "If—if you could take away all of it, going back to Canada and... your family, would you want me? Would you want to be my boyfriend?"

Mark stops where he is, right under the dark silhouette of an old tree, branches whispering in the summer breeze, and closes his eyes. 

"Of course I would. Johnny, I want to be your boyfriend _now_ ," he admits. Only the tree and Johnny are around to hear him. His chest is tight, almost sore, from letting out a truth he's kept under lock and key, even from himself. "If I thought we could date for a while, and I could forget about you when I got on the plane to Canada—" He swallows, heavy and audible. "This has never been about not liking you enough."

There's a long pause, during which Mark hears a siren on Johnny's end of the call approach and then fade away. "You're dangerous," Johnny says quietly. "I'd take anything you'd give me."

"You shouldn't." Johnny deserves to be someone's _husband_ , not a secret kept by some kid in Canada.

"I miss you," Johnny says, and Mark suspects a finality to it that has his fingers clenching around his phone, pressing it closer to his face. "If you text me after this, I'll answer you. I just… Mark, none of it is a deterrent to me wanting to date you. Not Canada, not your being in the closet. I think we could work it out."

The earnestness in Johnny's voice hurts. Mark stares ahead, unseeing, eyes blurring behind his glasses. "I can't," he chokes. "I'm sorry."

"I know. It's okay," Johnny says, but he exhales shakily and ends the call a few moments later.

Mark stays under the tree, frozen in place, until he gets himself under control and his vision is clear. The rest of his walk to the dorm is empty of people, and it feels oppressively quiet even though he can hear the wind and the sounds of nature and distant car noise. Without Johnny in his ear, Mark feels afraid of the dark.

\---

He dreams about Johnny giving a toast at his own wedding, next to a faceless bride, and Mark's watching from the back of the church, _his_ home church in Vancouver, with its warped-wood pews and the ever-present smell of rug cleaner. He wakes up feeling like something sat on his chest and slowly choked the life out of him all night.

Mark lies on his back with his arms near his head, winded, wide awake, starting to sweat in the summer sunlight. He doesn't put much stock in dreams, but he does know that sometimes the stuff he pushes down and refuses to look at likes to take revenge in the night. Likes to _make_ him look. He blows out a shuddery breath.

\---

The worst part is, while Johnny's conversation gave him some closure and a chance to say some of what he'd wanted to for weeks now, it didn't do anything but sprinkle salt on the wound of how much he wants to talk to Johnny. He still wants it. The wanting still occupies him.

Johnny saying that he'll text Mark back is a dangerous temptation.

He shouldn't, though, thinking of Grace and her big day and how busy Johnny must be, even at an early hour. He buries his phone under his pillow and takes a shower and fucks around with some video footage on his laptop, and that keeps him busy until lunch. 

\---

When Mark texts Hyuck to bug him in the afternoon, Hyuck says he's busy doing something with Taeil, though he says Mark can join them if he wants.

Mark has almost no desire to sit at home and torment himself with the thought of texting Johnny. He has even less desire to third-wheel Taeil and Hyuck again. It was weird enough when they were drunk and singing. He has no idea what's going on there, aside from Hyuck's jealousy (normal) and hero-worship (super not normal for Hyuck) and Taeil's oddly serene smile through the entire evening, but it's not his business.

Or rather, it'll be his business if Hyuck ever confides in him, but after two years of knowing him and never hearing more than passing comments about random people being hot or pretty (usually because of their clothes, Mark's noted), Mark's not sure where Hyuck's comfort level with the concept of sex, or dating, is. 

Which is pretty funny, if he thinks about it. Mark, closeted and unwilling to risk a romantic life, and Hyuck, never expressing interest in the concept at all. Two peas in a pod.

Without anyone there to give him baleful eyes and make fun of his lack of spine, Mark gives in and texts Johnny forty-five minutes before the ceremony is slated to start. He does it because he's convinced himself Johnny will be too busy with prep to check his phone, but to his nervous surprise, Johnny answers him almost immediately.

 **Mark:** Tell Grace i said congrats, and good luck out there, photographer boy 

So it's a bad text, but Mark's hands were shaking, and it was the best he could do before he chickened out entirely.

 **Johnny:** I will. She'll be over the moon.  
**Johnny:** Wish you were here. Sorry if that's weird.

Mark doesn't reply yet. He doesn't have the first clue where to start, but beyond that, Johnny really should concentrate. It's clear Mark can only distract him and also, you know, send a thoughtless text and remind him of how badly it ended. 

He uploads one of his finished videos to YouTube, a newer guitar arrangement of a Bieber cover he's busted out a lot to entertain Lucas. It's not his usual stuff for YouTube, which is basically his portfolio. He has some original stuff he set to unlisted last year, but there's plenty of footage related to assignments and even some attempts at classical guitar up, along with busking footage he made Donghyuck or Lucas take. 

As an afterthought, he sends the link to the family group chat, mostly so that his sister can make fun of him for Bieber, as if she didn't go through a Belieber phase in middle school. 

He thinks he should have expected his mom to call. She usually likes to give him compliments over the phone before plastering him all over her Facebook wall, so that he doesn't think she's 'showing off,' whatever that means. Though she's been calling slightly less over the last few months, trying to give Mark space, she's still invested in trying to reach him. 

For the first time in weeks, Mark doesn't screen her call. He picks up his phone, thoughtful, lonely, on edge, not quite sure what might come out of his mouth.

"Mark-ya!" she crows with delight when he accepts. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No, I was only working on some video stuff. Did you like the cover I sent?"

"Your father cast it on the big TV in the living room. You looked so handsome! You sounded beautiful, too."

"Thanks, Mom." While Mark isn't great at handling compliments beyond his handful of rehearsed platitudes, he's so used to his mom's enthusiasm—and her direct critique, when she thinks Mark isn't trying hard enough or practicing enough—that it washes over him. "Are you and dad doing anything today?"

"Just puttering around. Your sister has a solo in a week, so we're watching TV to tune her out."

"Tell her to go down into the basement. If I had to practice down there, so does she," Mark jokes. 

"Oh, she's _in_ the basement," his mom says archly. "No one can project like her."

The basement is a land of abandoned furniture and old instruments, from when his parents used to jam. His first keyboard is there, and one of his guitars. The acoustics are decent, and it's relatively soundproof. The fact that his sister's audible upstairs means she's going to shatter the church windows. 

"How are your classes going? Oh, and what about that wedding you said you were going to?"

Right. Mark told his mom something about helping Johnny photograph Grace's wedding around when he went and stayed with the Suhs, mostly to make it look like he had a thriving and healthy social life. "That ended up falling through, actually. It's fine, though, I passed my congratulations along to the bride."

His mom makes a noise of confirmation and then sighs wistfully. "Too bad you couldn't go. I love a summer wedding."

"You wouldn't love them out here," Mark says, trying to stop her from getting too comfortable with the wedding concept. "It's thirty-four degrees with like a hundred percent humidity. I'm pretty sure brides have melted."

"At least their makeup has," she giggles, and Mark lets himself sit in the rush of homesickness that sound brings. 

For all that returning to Canada is ruining the life he carved out for himself, as pathetic as it is, and for all that it's ruining his chances at anything with Johnny, he misses it. He misses the weather, the clouds, the food, the mountains, the water—he chose Chicago in part for its proximity to water, but it isn't the same—and the people. He misses his childhood home and the people in it. He misses his annoying brother living up the street and stopping by all the time with his perfect wife who makes perfectly rolled kimbap. He misses his church, the people he grew up with. He misses his friends, even if they know an outdated version of Mark. 

It would be a lot easier if just hearing her talk didn't make him feel loved. She's letting him get away with so much, being avoidant and taking money that could be used for his parents' retirement or to do repairs on the house to study music in the States. Mark's getting away with things she has no idea about, could never suspect.

"Ma, can I ask you something?"

His voice doesn't betray him, but maybe the fact that he's going out of his way to ask does. Maybe the fact that he picked up the phone is enough of a sign that he's going through it.

"Of course?" she asks, quizzical and careful.

"You're proud of me, right? Like, you'll still be proud of me if I—if I can't make it in music, or if I fail a class, or when I'm bad at calling you back, when I'm a bad son, you still—"

He clamps his mouth shut, wincing and falling forward against the tiny dorm desk, bracing himself with a damp palm.

"I'm your mother, Mark-ya, I love you unconditionally. And I'm proud of you, even if this is your way of trying to tell me you're failing a class."

Even though Mark's eyes sting with tears, he lets himself laugh. He's silent after, and there's a whining in his head, an almost physical tension in his skull from trying to hold back. 

It hurts his whole body, because he believes her, but he doesn't know how much. Maybe she will still love him if he tells her he's gay, but she'll love him differently. She'll be afraid for him, for his safety and his soul, made uncomfortable by him, her dreams for him shattered. He'll be a stranger to her, in some ways. And that's his mom, the person in the whole world he trusts most, loves the most. Who knows about the rest of his family? His church, his neighbors, his grandparents, his pastor, the kids he used to supervise at camp every summer, his sister's friends? 

"I'll love you and be proud of you no matter what," she says firmly, as she's likely able to fill in the blanks of what Mark's silence means. She never drew attention to his tears after it became clear how humiliated and repulsed he was by crying in the first place, just quietly passed him a tissue or let him leave the room to save face.

"What if I don't stay in Canada?" he blurts out. It's the crux of the matter, ignoring the whole part about his sexuality. If he's peeling back layers of himself in the interest of being better, of running less and enduring more, he owes it to himself to at least ask.

She pauses for a moment, and Mark fights a sinking sensation. But then she speaks, and Mark can barely believe the words that come out of her mouth. "Well, I won't say we wouldn't miss you like crazy, and not to mention we'd need to make sure you were safe and ready to establish yourself somewhere else"—Mark hears the unspoken, sharper edge of _We aren't paying for that, Lee Min-hyung_ —"but it's your life. You live where you want to. Would you want to stay in Chicago?"

There's a very long lull where Mark only hears the white noise in his head.

Her voice breaks through when she worriedly asks, "Mark?"

He shakes his head. His eyes are still closed, hot tears escaping onto his cheeks to roll down his chin. "I don't know," he says, the stuffy note to his voice threatening to give him away. "I'm thinking about it in general."

He's a liar. When he pictures staying, like when he found himself on the immigration website a few nights ago, familiarizing himself with rules and procedures he more or less skimmed before when he was just looking at information pertaining to students, he pictures Johnny's face. He doesn't mind Chicago. He doesn't mind America, and during his late nights, he checks Craigslist postings for music gigs in New York. L.A. Berlin, once. He checks Toronto, too, but that feels somehow less acceptable, to be in his home country but so very far away from home.

His whole adolescence, he knew he needed to pursue music. It was his biggest talent and the only time he really felt at ease, especially when his teenage years hit. Around the same time, thanks to puberty, he discovered he couldn't keep denying his attraction to men, either, not long-term. It was keeping him up at night and giving him indigestion, and he was praying way, way too much, asking for the impossible: to be turned normal. When one of his extremely temporary high school girlfriends tried to sext him, he panicked and broke up with her on the spot. He sort of had to confront the truth then.

Mark concocted doing a few years of school in America to… try it out. To see if he could stand to be touched and kissed by men when the same attention from women left him cold and confused. He even decided to do his prerequisites at a community college, to save his parents some money in his selfish experiment—and to give himself a time limit. He could get it out of his system, and then Mark would come back and be a good son. 

He knew within a week that was a futile goal, that opening his mouth and telling Donghyuck he's gay, or letting Wendy convince him to join the LGBT group, that going to gay bookstores and reading about gay history—and fucking men, even if it was bad and messy and complex a lot of the time, before Johnny—that it all changed him, reshaped him, and he couldn't fit back into Mark Lee's old life. 

He was a fool for thinking two years would be enough. For not realizing two days would be enough to fracture him.

Now, hearing that she doesn't expect him to follow in his brother's footsteps, it's so big, he can't look at it head-on. 

He truly thought the only way he'd be able to leave was if he married some woman (best-case scenario, a lesbian in similar circumstances) and had his family's blessing. Or maybe if he garnered the courage to slink away as a disgrace. His parents lived at home until they got married and moved into their first condo. It's the same for most of his family, his community. You stick close until you get married and you or your spouse gets a job offer somewhere far away, and it's lucrative enough to be worth the cost of leaving everyone behind. To do otherwise is an aberration. 

"I'm coming home after I graduate," Mark tells her, voice rough. It's the only thing he's sure of right now, the fact that he's got a plane ticket and promised her he'd be home for her birthday. "I'm not… I'm just thinking."

"I'll be so happy to have you home," she says. "But Mark, just because your brother lives up the block from us doesn't mean you have to, too." 

Mark's heart is clogging his throat, beating like a wild thing. His face is still wet, his eyes still stinging. "Okay. I'll think about it."

She lets him go with a minimum of fuss, probably because she can hear the tears in his voice and knows he needs to make his escape with what's left of his dignity.

Mark pitches forward, phone clattering on the desk, and buries his face in his arms to quell the sobs that are finally catching up with him. 

He hates it, he hates the lack of control and the vulnerability, even in an empty room, but there's a relief to it this time, too. A horrible and incredible letting go.

—-

After, he drinks an entire bottle of water and a tea from his mini fridge, trying to stave off the inevitable crying headache. He picks his phone back up, opening the text conversation with Johnny that he's left hanging, then closes it when he immediately wants to type something. Immediately wants to tell Johnny… what? That his mommy gave him permission to leave home? That maybe they could try something?

God, the simple idea stops his breath. His body feels light, like the news carved him out, like he could float around his own room. 

He needs to stop and think about what this means for him, not just his potential— _whatever_ with Johnny. He could live anywhere, presumably; he could start sending out resumes and reaching out to people his parents knew in New York. He should at least decide if that's what he wants. If a career in music in the U.S. is his priority.

If he even wants to actually be the Mark Lee he imagined in his guiltiest, most self-indulgent dreams.

He's cut off from chasing the rabbit of _that_ thought by a text message from Ten. Mark texted him once after their smoothie conversation, to make sure Ten would know Mark didn't plan on blowing him off, but they've been silent since. 

**Ten:** How are you, angel

He frowns, wondering if Ten knows Johnny and he are talking, kind of, again, but then remembers Ten is well aware what today is. The day he was supposed to be Johnny's plus-one-slash-assistant to Grace's wedding. 

**Mark:** Kind of having a meltdown but good lol  
**Mark:** Wait how r u!!!! Isn't one of your student showcases today?????

Ten surprises him by calling, and Mark picks up, fumbling the phone he's so startled.

"Hello?" he tries.

There's the sound of muffled running water on the other end, and Ten hisses under his breath, "What's wrong? What meltdown?"

"Aren't you, like— Are you hiding somewhere?"

"I'm in the bathroom," Ten says, "trying not to chew my fingers off, oh my fucking God, I'm so nervous."

"For your students?"

"Yeah, they're my beginner class. I always get like this before performances. Not my own," he clarifies, and it's odd to hear Ten being so quiet, so low, but his voice is almost soothing like this. "Just… I want them to do well and be happy with their hard work."

"I'm sure you taught them really well," Mark says. "And we all know that sometimes you have to, like, beef it on stage big time once or twice to realize the world won't end."

Ten makes a disgruntled noise. "No _beefing it big time_ for my low-impact babies, thank you. But enough about me." He raises his voice and sounds more like himself; he must be alone in the bathroom now. "A meltdown?"

"I said I was good," Mark defends. "I said LOL and everything."

"You'd send an LOL if you broke your arm," Ten says, and Mark privately concedes the point. "How can I help?"

"Uh, I don't think there's anything you can do. But thanks? I got some really… wild news from my mom earlier, and I realized I don't have to like, live at home and probably die there, haha."

"That's—good?" Ten says dubiously. "Not dying in your childhood home is ideal."

"It's good," Mark reassures him. "It's, uh, it's something I need to talk to Johnny about. Maybe."

Ten is silent for a moment, and Mark can hear his barely suppressed delight in his voice when he says, "Interesting. Is that why he— You know what, I said I was staying out of other people's business. Specifically yours."

Mark snorts. The amusement in him feels like it could expand in a second and fill his whole chest, his whole body. It feels a little like he's high. Probably all the crying. "This coming from the guy who told me to confront Johnny at his cousin's wedding, okay, sure, I buy it."

There's a beat where he hears nothing, then a quickly drawn breath. "I did _not_ tell you to just show up at Grace's wedding," Ten yelps into the phone. 

"Pretty sure you did," Mark says.

"No, I encouraged you to go to his parents' house and talk with him there. And _then_ go to Grace's wedding as his date. Separate events. Oh my God, Mark."

"I—" Okay, that makes a lot more sense than Mark's assumption that Ten was telling him to show up to make a scene at Grace's wedding like some sort of K-drama villain. "It's still pretty weird to show up at someone's parents' house, though!" The memory of Ten asking _Johnny's mom_ for permission to Mark to show up and talk to Johnny makes him cringe. He wonders what that poor woman thinks of Mark, who has been nothing but a nervous mess in her vicinity.

"It was that or wait for the heat death of the universe," Ten says, clearly exasperated, but he's started giggling. "Johnny would fall to his knees the second he saw you, is all," Ten says. "If that's what you want, you should just take it."

It's a somewhat uncomfortable reminder of what Johnny said to him the night before—that he'd take anything Mark would give him. The knowledge of that, buttressed by Ten's casual admission, sits liquid and hot in his stomach.

Johnny seeing Mark for the first time in weeks, his eyes widening and his mouth parting. He can see it. The shock and the slow realization on his face. He doesn't think Johnny would fall to his knees, Ten's being dramatic, but he thinks he knows now that Johnny seeing him would be a revelation writ all over Johnny's face.

"It is what I want," Mark says, half-unconsciously, fingers spasming around the phone when he realizes he said it aloud, and to Ten. "Um."

He supposes he answered at least some of his questions. He wants to try with Johnny. He wants to figure it out. 

He wants to be Johnny's boyfriend.

For the second time today, Mark's eyes start stinging, and he furiously rubs them under his glasses. Bawling on the phone with Ten because he said he wants Johnny is something he can't live down.

"Then you should go get it, angel." Ten pauses. "Fuck, my students are starting to arrive. I need to get out of here. Can we switch to texting?"

"Of course," Mark says, clearing his throat conspicuously. For some reason, he's smiling. It's wild. "Ten, they're gonna be great, I promise."

They hang up, and Mark reopens the text log with Johnny, eyes wide, heart thrumming.

\---

Over the next hour, Mark makes a series of choices, and most of them make sense.

He texts Donghyuck first, since he's had to deal with weeks of Mark's semi-absent friendship followed by more weeks of Mark's palpable misery. Also, Mark's figured out that keeping things from him will always be a mistake.

 **Mark:** I talked to my mom earlier n she said shed be ok w me moving out n living somewhere else longterm 😮

It takes a few minutes for Hyuck's replies to start, but they pile up in a hurry when they do.

 **Donghyuck:** WHAT  
**Donghyuck:** 대박!!!!!!!!!!!  
**Donghyuck:** Mark!!!

He sends six emojis all as their own messages, one after another, and Mark finds himself laughing, tugging his bangs, thinking about Hyuck's enthusiasm. He's known Mark for so long now, known about his dread to return home even if he never talked about it like that. He gets how huge this is.

 **Donghyuck:** Where are you I am coming right now

 **Mark:** Ah 😳 Im in my room but!!  
**Mark:** Im actually leaving soon sooooo yea  
**Mark:** Plus u should hang out w taeil!! Hows that going

There's a pause, during which Mark feels thoroughly seen through, and he stops rustling through his skincare pouch to find the tinted BB cream his mom sent him. He waits, staring down at the screen like it might manifest Hyuck's next message.

 **Donghyuck:** 💀💀💀  
**Donghyuck:** Does this have to do with JOHNNY perhaps  
**Donghyuck:** Don't worry about Taeil that's a whole other thing we're talking about another day

Mark nervously checks his notifications again to see if Ten has replied, but he hasn't yet. Mark uses one hand to answer Hyuck, the other dumping out his pouch for easier searching access.

 **Mark:** Hahaha am i that obvious

 **Donghyuck:** Yes  
**Donghyuck:** Can't believe someone told you to gatecrash a wedding and you're ACTUALLY DOING IT 💀💀💀

 **Mark:** Yea turns out i had that wrong but like  
**Mark:** Idk how it will go but johnny said he wanted me there n uh turns out i dont actually want to die alone lmao  
**Mark:** Jk

 **Donghyuck:** Progress??? We love to see it  
**Donghyuck:** Wait are you actually talking with JOHNNY again wtf

Mark winces, realizing he left out some of the story in the telling, but to his credit he is in the middle of what may be the strangest week of his life.

Ten texts Mark an address, followed by "Jaehyun ETA 15 min," and Mark gasps and leaves the BB cream unfound. It's way, way more important that he one) finish getting dressed and two) tell Ten not to send _Jaehyun_ to ferry Mark to the suburbs. He needs the anonymity of an Uber driver who will politely ignore Mark melting from stress in their back seat, not Jaehyun. 

**Mark:** No what omg  
**Mark:** Not jaehyun!!!!! I will literally die ten

 **Ten:** You want to spend $100 on an Uber when Jaehyun is right there with his Audi and dimples  
**Ten:** It'll be fine angel  
**Ten:** And Jaehyun can drive you home if you need that

That sends a thump of dread through Mark, the idea that he could show up and Johnny could not want him there. It's enough to panic him, put him outside of his body and show him that this is still weird and maybe unwelcome.

 **Ten:** Which you won't but I figure it will make you feel better to have an escape route 🙂

Mark sighs and finally manages to text Hyuck back with shaking hands. He's wearing his boxers and an undershirt, and he already put his contacts in, but he's not sure about which one of his whopping two dress shirts is the better choice. He already knows the shoes are going to pinch, but at least they weren't dusty when he pulled them out of his side of the closet.

 **Mark:** Yea he called  
**Mark:** And apologized  
**Mark:** And Im thinking I might just  
**Mark:** Go for it??????  
**Mark:** U can tell me if u think im crazy lol

 **Donghyuck:** I don't think that. I think you're brave

 **Mark:** ?????  
**Mark:** U dont think its a mistake????

 **Donghyuck:** I have no clue if you're making a mistake  
**Donghyuck:** But you should do what you want even if it's a mistake

Mark cannot handle this. He feels like he's been walloped in a boxing ring for multiple rounds. _The hits keep comin',_ he thinks, and wills himself to not fucking cry _again_. 

**Mark:** That means a lot man  
**Mark:** I gotta go tho need to get ready

 **Donghyuck:** Text me if you need me

 **Mark:** 👍

\---

He finishes styling his hair right when Jaehyun texts to let him know he's in Mark's parking lot. Mark is dressed, his suit thankfully still fitting from when his mom bought it for him a few years ago, though the sleeves feel like they could come down a little. Mark's reflection seems especially bug-eyed, but that's because he's wearing contacts and not used to it. 

He tells Jaehyun he'll be out in a few and gives a frantic glance around at his stuff. His wallet is in his pocket, and he's as shined up as he'll get. The fabric of the suit isn't forgiving in this weather, since it was made for Canada versus Illinois, but it's not like he can show up in khaki shorts and a polo. He's showing up in his suit, tie knotted deftly with hands that have performed the motion on a thousand Sundays, his slightly too-long bangs styled so they basically cover his eyebrows, and his face is as open and unencumbered as it can get, bare of his glasses.

Minus the acne. Mark checks his pile of skincare products with one last, desperate glance and finds the BB cream under a package of facial wipes that have probably dried out. Moving quick, he slathers some on his face, tries his best to rub it in evenly, and rinses the excess off his fingers. His complexion looks a lot better, at least.

"It's fucking now or never, dude," he says to the mirror, his scared and elated almost-self.

\---

Jaehyun's Audi looks like it just left the showroom floor, gleaming in the waning afternoon light. Mark worries about getting fingerprints on the door when he fiddles with the handle. Jaehyun's general shape is behind the tinted glass, gesturing for him to get inside.

Mark climbs into the passenger seat, tries not to touch anything, and, in a ramble, says, "Hey, thanks so much, this is mad nice of you. Oh, this is a really nice car. Did Ten send you the address or only me?" 

"Hey, Mark," Jaehyun says, kindly not laughing at him. He slips the gear into reverse and navigates them out of the parking lot. On his wrist is a broad watch Mark doesn't recognize the brand name of but knows is bougie as hell. "I've got the address, don't worry. You all buckled in?"

"Yep," Mark says, tapping the seatbelt that's constricting his already tight-feeling chest. "All ready to go, haha."

"GPS says we're forty-five minutes out. Even if traffic gets unpredictable, we should get you there in under an hour, okay?"

"That's fine. I want to make sure I get there after all the big ceremony stuff but before everyone starts to go home, you know?" The thought of walking into the ceremony late gives Mark metaphorical hives.

"Makes sense," Jaehyun says, nodding slowly. There's no music on, only the almost imperceptible sound of the fans circulating cool air around the car. It's just Mark, Jaehyun, and Mark's bad idea, signaling to get onto the interstate.

"Thank you again for this. I can, like, Venmo you gas money."

"Don't worry about it," Jaehyun says, popping a single dimple with a quick smile. "We're friends, so I'm happy to help."

Jaehyun calling them friends is a little funny. He's not wrong, not explicitly, especially after the weeks of watching _Avatar_ together and hanging out in the small group of Johnny's household, but Mark previously considered him, like, Wendy's friend. Jaehyun was beautiful and nice to him and kind of a distant star of a human being. And now he's driving Mark on what might be a disastrous mission to give him and Johnny a shot at being something.

Mark's heart kicks up its pounding, and rather than check his phone and hyperfixate over every text he's ever sent Johnny, he decides to keep talking. "This really is a nice car," Mark says, admiring it anew. "I don't think I've ever been in an Audi."

"Thanks. I traded in my Tesla because it wasn't my vibe, and the Audi gets me where I need to go." He pats the dashboard fondly. Mark pictures Jaehyun driving a Tesla around campus and his old and very middle-class neighborhood and stifles a laugh. "Just picked it up from being detailed yesterday."

Mark has a vague idea of what detailing entails and makes a vague noise of approval to match. The two of them drift into silence, now on the interstate at a pretty decent clip, though there's always downtown traffic fuckery to slow them down around every exit. 

He checks his phone though he told himself he wouldn't, and it reads 6:07. He'll get there by 7:00, most likely. The invite Johnny showed him said the ceremony started at four and ended at five, followed by a cocktail hour, and then the actual wedding dinner and reception. He remembers something about an outdoor ceremony and indoor celebration and hopes he's right, that he won't sweat through his suit jacket.

As is his habit now, he opens his text conversation with Johnny.

"This is kind of weird, right?" he asks, staring down at the words, and at his own conspicuous lack of reply. "Just showing up when we haven't, like, worked it out." He wonders if Jaehyun even knows that, how much Ten or Johnny have told him. 

"A little," Jaehyun says agreeably. "But not that weird." He glances at Mark, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. "Especially if you're me and you've lived with Johnny over the last few weeks."

That, perversely, makes Mark feel better. He's not sure he can trust his own judgement when his judgement is making him do fucking bananas things, like asking his mom if he can move away or showing up as a wedding date because Johnny sent him a sad text.

Still, Mark is worried Johnny will change his mind, or think Mark's gone too far. He chews on his lip, reminds himself not to do that unless he wants to show up looking mauled.

Honestly, the only person who can convince Mark this isn't going to end badly is Johnny. Ten can't give him permission, no matter what he says about Johnny loving a dramatic gesture. Johnny's mom can't give him permission. Only Johnny can.

 **Mark:** After everything, u still want me there?

Jaehyun hits a patch of rough concrete, but his Audi handles it like a champ; Mark barely rattles around. He stares down at his phone, turns off the screen, turns it back on, and considers how he would ask Jaehyun to stop and turn the car around, to take him home.

But then Johnny's text is on his screen.

 **Johnny:** Yes  
**Johnny:** I want you anywhere I can get you, Mark.

Mark presses his knuckles to his lips and stares out the window. He sees a sliver of his reflection in Jaehyun's very clean window, its secret smile.

\---

The venue is gorgeous, an old historic estate with gardens and pavilions and a shocking amount of parking. Jaehyun pulls into a space a little bit away from the bulk of the cars, and Mark scrambles out of the passenger seat before the ignition is off. The air that hits him isn't too bad, receding slowly from the hottest part of the day, and there's a lot of shade from all the foliage. Mark buttons his suit jacket and then slips his phone into his trouser pocket before he remembers it ruins the line. 

Where the heck is he supposed to put his phone if he can't put it in his pocket?

"Do you want me to come with you?" Jaehyun asks, having exited the car, too. He comes around to where Mark's standing, and he gives Mark's suit a critical once-over before tugging the lapels. Mark appreciates it, and the offer, but as good as Jaehyun looks, he's still not dressed for a wedding. 

Mark shakes his head. "No, I got this. But… there's a small chance I'll text you an SOS and run back here, and I need you to get us as far away from here as fast as possible."

Jaehyun blinks, draws his tongue over his lips, and then nods. "I can do that. I'll hang out here. If I don't hear from you in an hour, I'm texting you. Okay?"

Jaehyun really is nice. Mark is going to find some way to thank him for real later. "Thank you again. It's rad you're doing this for me. I'm sure you have a hundred other things you could be doing on a Saturday," Mark says.

Jaehyun's face tightens almost imperceptibly, and his smile when it comes seems a little tired at the corners. "I really don't," he says, and puts a hand on Mark's shoulder, squeezing. "Go talk to Johnny. I'll be waiting."

\---

When he gets close enough to the estate house that he hears music and laughter and the general sounds of wedding merriment, Mark stalls. He managed the walk from the parking lot, past the fountain, past the little garden, if not resolute than at least putting one foot in front of the other consistently, but now that his goal is within reach, is tangible, of course he's faltering.

He imagines turning around and telling Jaehyun he couldn't go through with it, having to text Ten, having to text Donghyuck, and having to live with the spectre of what-if, and he grinds his teeth and pushes forward. 

No one is in the foyer when he enters, but he can see people in a big room off to the right. No one he recognizes, because life isn't that easy, but he's made it inside. It can't be that much harder to keep going. 

He sees a fancy banner with Grace and her fiance's—now her husband's—name on it and smiles. There's a mountain of presents on a side table that spans the length of the foyer. He pokes his head around the doorframe leading to the bigger room, hovering awkwardly in the doorway and hoping he's half-shielded by it, but aside from seeing that some people are sitting down and eating, there's no sign of Johnny. Or Grace and her husband, at that.

Mark's really going to have to wander through this big-ass house until he finds Johnny. _Love that for me_ , he thinks, pushing forward and plastering on a smile. No one looks askance at him, although he gets some curious gazes simply because he knows he's fresh meat.

Mark finds his way to a dining room that isn't actually in use, then almost goes into the kitchen before one of the catering staff stops him to ask if he needs anything.

"Uh, actually—"

"Mark?" he hears, and even though it was not Johnny's voice that said it, Mark feels himself flinch. 

When he turns, to his simultaneous relief and terror, it's Johnny's mom. She looks really pretty, in a summery but sedate dress, her hair styled and her makeup flawless. She's also smiling at him, though it's subdued.

"Hi," he says. "I'm, um—"

"John's out in the gardens taking some scenery shots," she says. "It's just through the back, a little bit of a walk. I texted his father to come inside and eat cake, so you should be alone."

Mark nods, though what she said makes little sense to him. Possibly because, although Ten told him she approved of the whole 'coming to see Johnny' thing, Mark wrote it off as hyperbole, part of Ten's attempts to get him to act. But no, she's standing in front of him, looking at him expectantly, and she knows why he came here—she must know what Mark wants with her son.

Looking at her like this jogs his memory of something else entirely. Mark exclaims, "Oh jeez, I left your Tupperware at home, I'm so sorry. I would have brought it, but I was in a hurry, and—"

She steps forward, resting a manicured hand on Mark's arm. Her smile has spread the smallest amount, and Mark is fine with it being at his expense. "Mark, don't worry so much. You can bring me my Tupperware some other time, yes?"

He nods hurriedly, sheepish, and thinks he'd love to escape this conversation, but what's waiting for him is even harder. She pats his arm fondly and points to the back door with raised eyebrows. "I'm going," he says, almost trips over his own foot, and stops himself from careening into anything. "I swear."

He has to murmur polite "excuse me"s to pass by some of the people milling around, the ones not seated or out on the patio, which is where he catches a glimpse of Grace standing next to her husband resplendent in her wedding gown, her mermaid hair piled on top of her head, smiling wide and doing a lot of hand-shaking. Mark catches himself smiling, too. He really does like weddings.

It's not hard to find the gardens; there's a path leading toward a bunch of ancient-looking trees and away from buildings, but also a nice placard with arrows pointing in the direction he's already headed. Mark's alone on the path, wandering over the crest of a slight incline hill until a huge, pristine lawn opens up before him, with riots of flowers growing near its edges. Beyond that, there's only trees completely enclosing the back of the estate. The shade—and the sun, starting to set—makes this area feel like an oasis against the summer.

The only person out here is Johnny, his silhouette unmistakable to Mark. He's not too far into the lawn; it looks like he's taking wider shots, but then he meanders closer to some of the flowerbeds to take a close up, fiddling with his lens.

Mark is risking Johnny glancing over or turning around, and the performer in him knows it's better if he manages to come closer undetected. Given that all of Mark's natural instincts have abandoned him at this point, he'll take what he can get. He treads quietly toward Johnny, his footsteps on the grass more or less silent.

Johnny looks so good in his suit. His hair looks darker and styled different from what Mark can see. He barely looks real, after weeks of distance and never having seen Johnny's long lines in a suit. Mark can't believe this is happening. 

"Hey, Johnny," he says, so quiet it's almost lost to the wind in the trees. "Sorry I'm late."

Johnny nearly drops his camera as he turns to Mark. Their gazes meet, and Johnny's eyes have never been wider. Mark gets caught on them for a second, but then he can't stand it, glancing down at Johnny's lips, which are parted with shock.

He is, Mark thinks, stomach tightening, so damn beautiful. It's gotten worse; his hair _is_ different, darker and parted on the side in a pompadour. His face is somehow even more angular because of the style and the near shave of his recent undercut. He looks older like this.

"Mark?" he says in disbelief. "How— Oh my God."

He scratches the back of his head and takes an uncertain step closer. Johnny, incredibly, does the same, until they're a scant few feet apart. "Uh, I'm really sorry if this is inappropriate, but I've missed you so bad and I needed to see you."

Johnny's face does something complicated. "You're really here," he says. 

It doesn't sound like Johnny's pissed at Mark's presence, but he's also not really saying anything. He looks less shocked now, eyes searching Mark's face like he's cataloging him. "Yeah, would you believe that Jaehyun drove me?"

"In the Audi?" Johnny demands immediately, but then he scrunches his brow and shakes his head as if irritated at himself. "Mark, I don't care how you got here, I care that you're here. Holy shit."

Mark doesn't know what to say, so he lets Johnny take his time. Not that Johnny takes much.

"Is this—" He makes an abortive gesture with his free hand. The camera hanging from a strap around his neck is cupped with the other hand protectively, close to his body. "I told you I'd take anything you'd give me, and that's true, but I don't know what this is."

"This is… me, wanting to be your boyfriend," Mark says, voice nearly giving out midway through. "If you still want that. Like, we need to talk about it, but I just— I kept picturing you alone when I was supposed to be here, and I can't stand it. Not when I can do something about it."

"Of course I want it," Johnny says, gritty, eyes narrowed as he stares at Mark. "But you had some valid reasons for not dating."

"Yeah, uh, I don't know how to— I'm not saying I'm super confident about this. I'm, I still can't come out back home, in case that, uh, factors into things for you." Johnny doesn't say anything, so Mark keeps babbling. "Right now, I'm adjusting to a new world view where I can live in America long-term. If that's what I want. So. There's that. Oh, I'm still going back to Canada at least temporarily, after I graduate, so if that's an issue I get it—"

The play of emotions across Johnny's face is so obvious, so easy to read, Mark almost feels like he's seeing something he shouldn't. He's spent a decent amount of time with Johnny, by now; he's never seen him look like this, made young by his awe.

"Mark," he interrupts, and takes a step forward. "I want it. We'll figure it out. Can I— Will you kiss me? We're alone out here, but I could find—"

Mark is careful of Johnny's camera when he grabs him, his hands sliding under Johnny's suit jacket and digging into his hips before their mouths even meet. Johnny tastes like chapstick and champagne, and he opens for Mark's tongue immediately. He drags Mark closer, to the point where he's almost unbalanced, and then struggles to figure out what to do with his camera, an obstacle between them. 

Mark giggles into the kiss. Johnny breaks away but keeps an arm around Mark's waist and doesn't let him move an inch. "Fuck, Dad took my bag with him when he went inside. Maybe I can—"

Before Johnny does something like put his expensive professional camera on the literal ground, Mark shakes his head. "Don't you dare ruin that camera." 

Johnny looks poised to argue, but Mark snags him by his tie and kisses him, remembering the softness of Johnny's mouth all over again. It's different now, from all the other times he kissed him, maybe because of the slight feeling of unreality Mark has, the unfamiliar joy expanding inside of his chest. 

\---

They kiss in the garden so long that Jaehyun sends Mark his check-in text, buzzing in Mark’s pocket. Mark makes a noise of realization against Johnny's mouth and fishes his phone out from his suit jacket. "Oh man," he says, feeling distractingly kiss-swollen and his carefully styled hair a mess, "I forgot about Jaehyun."

"He's still here?" Johnny asks, trailing his lips along Mark's cheek to his ear. "Send him home already."

"He's my ride back, dude," Mark objects, and Johnny actually pulls back to regard Mark with a scandalized expression.

"Uh, no? That's boyfriend privileges?"

"Johnny, if I spend an hour alone with you in a car tonight, we'll end up fucking in a parking lot." He wishes he knew himself less well. But the inclination to pick up where they left off like nothing happened isn't aligning with Mark's determination to at least try to give himself and Johnny a real relationship. "And like, I want to do this right."

"Me, too," Johnny says. "And we will. But you should still let me be the one to drive you home."

"Johnny—"

"I _missed_ you. Forgive me for wanting to be alone with the boy of my dreams."

Mark turns very red all at once. "We're alone now," he mumbles, gaze going to Johnny's chin.

"Yes," Johnny sighs, but lifts his camera. "I'm technically on photographer duty, though, and I need to go get more pictures of the flowers and my cousin's transcendent marital bliss." He beams at Mark, then darts in to press a closed-mouth kiss on him. Mark's never seen him this happy, and it matches the joy burning inside of him.

"I'll come with you," Mark says. "Aren't I your assistant?"

"Nah, my dad was, until my mom lured him away with cake."

"I, like, love flowers," Mark says pointedly. His phone buzzes in his hand, no doubt Jaehyun again. "I love bliss."

Johnny rolls his eyes, but then his face softens, and he tilts his head at Mark. "If you want to come inside while I finish up, I'm sure Grace would love to see you, and I'll get you some cake. But my family is nosy—"

"Don't worry about me," Mark says with a confidence he doesn't feel. He stares up at Johnny's earnest face, backlit by the purples and golds of the sun sliding into darkness, and rubs his thumb over the velvet-soft short hair of Johnny's undercut. "I have to be careful, I'm still not out to my family, but here…" He shrugs, unsure how to explain the shape of the plan in his head. What he wants. What he can have, far enough away from home that there's little danger of being found out. "I came as your date, not your assistant," he admits.

Johnny's smile crinkles his eyes. "Okay," he says. "But first, can I ask a favor?"

Mark, who was typing out a text to Jaehyun telling him it's fine and he can leave now, glances up with alarm. "Uh, yeah?" He presses send and hopes Jaehyun doesn't ask any follow-up questions.

Johnny holds up his camera again. "Could I take your picture? I wouldn't post it anywhere, it's just—for me." 

Mark considers this, and the weight Johnny is putting behind a simple request. It's not like Mark hates having his picture taken; it's only that he has to make sure nothing can slip by his heavily curated online image, minimal as it is. There's no harm in Johnny taking a picture of him or even posting it. It gives nothing away.

But then he remembers that Johnny's been chewing on him for like a half hour, and he can _feel_ his hair sticking up. 

"At least let me fix my hair," he says, and Johnny's gentle hand immediately starts carding through his hair, adjusting his bangs. "How do you want me?" Mark asks, peeking up at Johnny, feeling a rush of satisfaction when Johnny bites his lower lip.

"You are," he sounds out, cupping the side of Mark's face with his warm palm, "ridiculously fucking hot."

"Do you need me to pose or anything?" Mark asks rather than addressing that. His cheeks are still on fire. Johnny's picture sure is going to be interesting.

"Stand in front of those flowers, and relax your hands at your sides. Yeah, like that." His dark amber eyes disappear behind the camera, his mouth firming into professional concentration. Mark catches himself glancing away, suddenly very aware of Johnny's level of skill and his own lack of worthiness as a subject. "Look at me," Johnny instructs, and Mark stares straight down the lens. 

He takes a few shots, Mark shifting his expression or his posture slightly when prompted, but always looking at Johnny. 

"Beautiful," Johnny mutters, as if to himself, and Mark's embarrassed pleasure is like a chill rather than something hot.

"Ten said you'd fall over for me in a suit," Mark says.

"Ten was right," Johnny says, lowering the camera and sweeping Mark from head to toe with a heavy-lidded gaze. "Thanks for this," he says, abruptly. "I realized a while ago I didn't have any pictures of you."

Something about that seems awful, even if it's innocuous. He spent weeks with Johnny and never once did they take a selfie together. That Mark hasn't so much as ended up in the background of a picture of Ten practicing high-kicks in the living room, laughing, seems like a crime. "Whoa, really? That's not right."

By mutual unspoken agreement, they've started wandering toward the path again. Toward reality outside of this pretty little spot of privacy, where Johnny's aunties and cousins are about to get the gossip of a lifetime. Toward Mark's looming graduation and the thousand messy, half-baked plans he has to organize, questions he has to ask. Even the idea of the car ride home makes Mark's stomach drop, thinking of all the things he and Johnny still need to say to each other.

Mark's hand brushes Johnny's as they walk, and he entangles their fingers to stop Johnny. "Hey, can we take a picture for my lock screen?" he asks. "I don't have any pictures of you either, and your Instagram only has arty selfies that hide how hot you are."

Johnny laughs, squeezing Mark's hand. "Sure, baby, we can do that."

Mark definitely doesn't shiver at the pet name.

Johnny slides his arm over Mark's shoulders, inclining his head close to Mark's, and Mark tries to remember what Hyuck told him about his angles. His phone is wheezing toward obsolescence, and it takes a moment for the camera app to open. Mark's almost startled by what he sees there, when he flips to the front-facing.

Johnny looks like Johnny, eyes twinkling, smile a little sly, and Mark looks... He looks like himself; the suit and the lack of glasses don't render him unrecognizable. It's the expression on his face that does: a wild, unrestrained happiness. His mouth is definitely still swollen, too. Mark smiles and takes a picture, and then another, and more when Johnny starts laughing. He tucks the phone back in his trouser pocket so he can sling his arms around Johnny's neck and kiss him, one last time before they're not alone anymore.

"Go on," Mark says, dropping his arms and giving Johnny, who blinks syrup-slow and savors Mark's taste on his mouth, a nudge. "I've kept you from your sacred duties long enough. I'll go find your mom."

"You sure?" Johnny asks.

"Yeah, I'm sure I don't want you to skimp on Grace's _wedding pictures_ , Johnny."

"All right." Johnny gives Mark a playfully mournful look, but he's already walking backward. "You won't have time for seconds," Johnny promises, and then smirks at Mark when he flaps a hand at him. His long legs take him up the path in a hurry, though he glances back a few times as if Mark might have disappeared.

Mark takes his time with the path. Despite what he said to Johnny, he's in no enormous hurry to reach the reception and put himself at the mercy of curious strangers, even if they are Johnny's family. Despite that, though, he's not actually afraid. He thinks he can do it, if he seats himself next to Johnny's mom and uses her as a life raft. 

He exits the path and passes the patio, where a few people are chatting. There's a DJ checking his equipment out here, and a dance floor assembled and ready to go. When he reaches the estate house, Mark pauses to the side of the entrance and opens his WhatsApp messages with Hyuck. First he attaches the best of the photos he took of them, though it makes Mark feel weird to look directly at it, his stupid toothy grin and too-sharp cheekbones and Johnny's matching smile, so wide it looks fake.

Mark doesn't send the picture to Ten, though he considers it for a second. Some part of him is still touchy about the meddling, even if Ten ended up being dead on. He'll text him later, or maybe Johnny will, too excited not to, in between shots of the cutlery. 

Donghyuck sends him another flurry of emojis, some of them incredibly freaking rude. Mark catches himself laughing, rocking back on his heels. His dress shoes really are too tight, but Mark is feeling absolutely no pain right now. Sore feet who? Not Mark Lee, _boyfriend_.

 **Mark:** They say jealousy is a disease Hyuckie  
**Mark:** 😘

 **Donghyuck:** I'm happy for you Morgus  
**Donghyuck:** Slightly less happy for JOHNNY SUH 

**Mark:** Yo thats my boyfriend u r maligning 

**Donghyuck:** I am actually terrified of you in a relationship  
**Donghyuck:** Is this how my life is now Mark

 **Mark:** Hey.....what DID happen w taeil btw 👀👀 

**Donghyuck:** Go bother JOHNNY SUH

 **Mark:** 👍

Still grinning, he slips his phone into his newly discovered inner jacket pocket and finally makes his way inside. 

All he has to do is find Johnny's mom in the crush of maybe fifty people, no big, and then he can sit down and stress-eat cake until Johnny's finished. Mark winds through some tables, scanning all of their occupants as fast as he can, and he's starting to despair that maybe she's on the patio or in the bathroom when he hears his name called in an ear-piercing shout in close quarters.

"Mark!"

It's Grace, changed into a white cocktail dress and with her hair down, headed toward Mark with her giant of a husband by her side.

"You came," she says, grabbing his hands and pumping them up and down before dropping them abruptly. "Oh my gosh, I'm so glad. Oh, you look so nice." She gestures at her husband, who hasn't looked at Mark once, just stared down at Grace in wonder. "This is Ji-hoon, my _husband_ ," she says with obvious relish. "Ji-hoon, this is Mark. He's—" And he sees it hit her the moment it falls out of her likely very tired and overwhelmed mouth. She has no idea what to call him, let alone what he might be comfortable with.

Mark sticks his hand out for a shake, now that Ji-hoon is actually looking at him, somewhat confused. "I'm Johnny's boyfriend," Mark says, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed!! This was a mountain of a chapter, and I'm really happy to be out from under it and sending it into the world.
> 
> So this series as a whole isn't finished yet, because as you probably noticed I'm full-tilt into it and can't stop until I've, idk, introduced Yuta and figured out what I'm doing with Taeyong. But I need a bit of a break to use my creative energy on all the other fics and ships that piled up as I wrote this (Lucas/Ten, Doyoung/Taeyong, probably YET MORE iterations of Johnny/Mark knowing me). I will absolutely come back to this series, though. 
> 
> Here's the playlist for this fic:
> 
> Carly Rae Jepsen - Summer Love  
> BIBI - Restless  
> DPR LIVE - Text Me  
> Carly Rae Jepsen - Felt This Way  
> We Are the Night - Take Your Camera 카메라를 챙겨  
> YESEO - Hot Hand  
> Peach Tree Rascals - Mariposa  
> Dua Lipa - Break My Heart  
> Geowulf - Summer Fling  
> Post Malone - Circles  
> We Are the Night - Where Are You  
> Flume - Never Be Like You  
> Seafret - Oceans  
> Carly Rae Jepsen - Stay Away  
> Mitski - Pink in the Night  
> Cigarettes After Sex - Falling In Love 
> 
> [Here's a link to the playlist to the entire series on Spotify!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/62epWai7rQ75YA9XWRTIGR?si=JYKwAu_CQLKJxz3hRL32-A)
> 
> Please feel free to come poke me on twitter: [@sneakethsnek](https://twitter.com/sneakethsnek)
> 
> EDITED TO ADD: I've started a Twitter thread of trivia/commentary on the whole series [here](https://twitter.com/sneakethsnek/status/1283211804806533120), if you're curious!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed chapter one! If you feel like seeing me post nonsense, a lot of it about NCT, I'm on twitter as [@sneakethsnek](https://twitter.com/sneakethsnek)!
> 
> Also, this fic will update once a week.


End file.
